


Private Voids

by extentia



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hydra (Marvel), Murder, Mystery, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-01 21:21:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16292039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extentia/pseuds/extentia
Summary: Stiles gets transported to the Avengers!Verse, where Tony and the team discover him. Tony offers the tower as a safe haven until he and Bruce can figure out what the fuck happened, and how they can get him back to his own world. But Tony isn't the only one who had equipment running to find out-of-this-world occurrences. Hydra is back from the dead, in that way everybody expected but hoped wouldn't come to pass.





	1. The Price You Pay

_Welcome to the jungle, we take it day by day. If you want it you're going to bleed, but it's the price you pay._

  
      
    So this is it, Stiles thinks, deftly, as yet another white-light-energy-whatever hits him from behind. He smacks directly into the door frame he’d been intending to exit.   
  
    “Fuck.” Stiles grasps a hand to his face, examining the blood he finds there. He probably smashed his nose up by the way the pain radiates with the quick check.  
  
    The sounds of someone, probably Malia, colliding into something hard, smacks him out of his stupor. They’re holding up well, all things considered. It would probably be better if he wasn’t here. Hand-to-hand confrontation with anyone, especially supernatural anyones, is one of the things he’s learned to avoid by now.  
  
    Stiles clutches his ears ineffectively as he pulls himself to his feet. Lydia seems to be their best option for defense right now. She's managed to hit the guy with what should be a whammy a few times already. However, nothing seems to be going the way they expect it to. He's glad he's clutching his ears again when he sees Lydia scream again through the doorway, pushing the witch-sorcerer-guy directly through a wall and outside.  
  
    For a long second, nothing happens. Stiles hovers in the doorway, unsure if leaving is still his best option.  
  
    Malia stands with a string of curses, rushing to Lydia’s side. She casts a glance his way, her hand on Lydia’s shoulder.  
  
    Stiles gives her a shaky smile to say he’s fine. The smile doesn’t pull painfully, so he’s mostly sure his nose isn’t broken. It’s just superficial he thinks, relieved.   
  
    He watches Malia look Lydia over for injuries and then scan the area around them with her senses.   
  
    “Scott?” Stiles asks. The question is clear enough to decipher, and since he knows next to nothing about whoever it is that came and whammied them, keeping it brief is essential for protective purposes. Malia shakes her head negatively.  
  
    “We need to get out of here.” Malia says, obviously unaware of the conclusion he’s already reached. He grins at her in that awfully devastating way, where they can all see the pain etched into every line on his skin. He agrees with her anyway.  
  
    “You think?” Lydia deadpans, short of breath.  
  
    Stiles thinks back to before, when Scott was always by their side. He’d been slacking more and more the closer they got to graduation. But when Liam refused to take over Beacon Hills, Scott was forced to stay. And really? Trying to force a beta to protect the town was just asking for a slew of trouble. Stiles didn’t know if Scott thought that one through or just didn’t care.  
  
    Stiles stumbles with his first step, blood rushing away from his head. Quickly righting himself, he follows Lydia and Malia from the room with the giant hole in the wall. They settle into the middle of the house warily, backs to each other and let Malia work her Werecoyote magic to figure out their next move.  
  
    “I can’t hear anything.” Malia informs them.  
  
    Stiles relaxes, feeling the tension start to leak from his shoulders and chest.  
  
    “Good, good, good, okay.” He sighs aloud.  
  
    “No, Stiles. I can’t hear anything.” Malia warns. “No cars, no people, no bugs. Nothing.”  
  
    Shit. Double shit. Triple shit. A shit sundae with shit nuts and shit fudge sauce in a shit bowl. He’s not even surprised Scott’s a no-show so far. He presses call on his phone again and it goes directly to voicemail. He tries Mason next and it goes to voicemail, too. Mason always has his phone on and charged, even going as far as to carry extra batteries with him. A strum of anxiety hits Stiles and goes directly to his core.  
  
    He swallows a mouthful of spit and tries to clear his head.  
  
    “You two run when the guy comes back. I’ve got this.” Malia punctuates by unsheathing her claws and hardening her stance. He knows she’s serious, prepared for it, even ready to die if necessary to protect them. Lydia beats his protest with one of her own.  
  
    “That’s not going to work.” She takes a deep breath in. “Not alone, anyway.”  
  
    They look at each other in that way Stiles wish he was able to do, no words, just a look of pure understanding. It turns on it's head when they both share a pointed look with Stiles.  
  
    “Oh, come on guys!” Stiles groans. He has the image of them both lying dead in this room, and himself blubbering at Scott’s the next day, trying to explain just how he let this happen. He pushes the images away as soon as they come.  
  
    Lydia puts her hands on his face and rests their foreheads together. A show of solidarity. So this is it, then. She closes her eyes and inhales a steadying breath.  
  
    “We’ll be fine. Find Scott, find Liam or Hayden. You can do it. It’ll be fine until then.” Her eyes meet his as she gives a wry smile. “I’m a bad ass Banshee and Malia is a kick ass Werecoyote, after all.” Lydia flourishes with a confident smirk, pulling away.  
  
    Stiles grimaces and shoots a glance to Malia, who gives him a sure nod. So he’s going to run, like he’s useless. And he kind of is when it comes to things like this. It just sits sour on his tongue, forcing Lydia and Malia to play bait for his benefit.   
  
    “He’s back!” Is the only warning he gets before Malia is thrown directly into Stiles. He feels her claws break the skin on his bicep as they both hit the ground. Lydia lets out another scream from where he can’t see with Malia’s body on top of his.  
  
    “Sorry.” She growls, pushing to her feet and charging at the guy. Lydia hits the ground with a groan to his left.   
  
    Stiles stops, hesitating, making sure the guy is busy as he makes a break for the door again. He fumbles with the door handle, hearing the battle rage on behind him. He’s out the door when he hears glass shatter behind him. Whoever lives in that house is going to have a lot of stuff to fix, thanks to them. But, eh, for the greater good or whatever. Who doesn’t have house insurance anyway?   
  
    He breaks into a run for the street, only to be thrown back by something.  
  
    “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.” He groans, examining the clear space in front of him. There’s a red powder on the ground. So, not Mountain Ash, then.  
  
    He tries to move the powder with his hands, and a lawn ornament, and following all of that, he tries moving it with his mind. Believe, Deaton said.  
  
    He concentrates on believing, because he has to go get back up. He believes he needs to break the barrier. He believes he can break it.  
  
    He believes it so much, he’s actually surprised when he opens his eyes and the forcefield is still there. He feels a nervous sheen of sweat on his face and back. If he can’t get out, he can’t get help, and Lydia and Malia are going to die.  
  
    He throws the lawn ornament ineffectively at the barrier, only for it to bounce back at him. He lets out an angry scream, beating his fists at it.  
  
    Stiles is running back to help them before he’s finished thinking about it. He’s not sure it’s a good idea to think about it too long, anyway.  
  
    There’s… a lot of blood. Malia isn’t moving, slumped against a coffee table. He checks her pulse, faint but still beating. She hit her head pretty badly. He focuses back on the noise and grabs a lamp, throwing it over the guy’s head from behind when he finds him and Lydia.  
  
    The guy doesn’t crumple or even flinch, just picks stiles up by his collar and throws him at Lydia’s feet. And yeah, that hurt enough for Stiles to remember he’s in a lot of pain already. Black flickering in his vision, he stands anyway. For Lydia, he won’t lose consciousness.  
  
    He’s faintly aware when the guy shoots another light-energy-burst at Lydia. He’s faintly aware when he doesn’t hear her get back up. His heart thrums uncomfortably in his throat. The world around him is singling down to only himself and the guy assessing him from across the room.   
  
    He sees more than feels the last bit of light flying towards him.  
  
    And then he sees nothing.  
  
^\/|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||\^/||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||\/^  
  
    Tony Stark is at his workshop desk tinkering with the wiring for what’s going to be the best damn replacement arm Bucky’s ever going to see, when his computer pings an alarm.  
  
    “JARVIS?” He asks, pushing his chair away from the desk, arm forgotten.  
  
    “There has been an unusually high energy signature detected in Northern California. Origin unknown.”  
  
    Okay, Tony can work with that.   
  
    “Pull up maps of the area: terrain, city, satellite.”  
  
    The maps flash around him.   
  
    “Do we have any visuals?” He asks, giving the maps a cursory glance.  
  
    “Unfortunately not, sir. The area seems to be primarily undeveloped.”  
  
    “Right. Okay. So who else has noticed? Anyone?” Tony asks.  
  
    “As of yet, sir, it seems to be just you and I.” JARVIS answers.  
  
    Tony grins and looks to his monitors again.  
  
    “Let the kids know we’re going on a trip, JARVIS.”  
      
    He and Bruce developed the tracking system shortly after the Loki-attempting-to-enslave-mankind debacle. Tracking the Tesseract was a great base-point for tracking non-human energy systems in general. Since SHIELD is in possession of the original Tesseract-tracking program, Tony pretty much had to make a new, better one- one that they didn’t have.  
  
    Bruce called it childish. Tony called it insurance… and then, maybe, albeit begrudgingly, childish. But first and foremost, it was useful. Case in point: now. When Bruce gets back to the tower, he’ll rub it in his face. But for now, he’s ushering his fellow Avengers out the door and to the car so they can catch a private plane to Nowheresville, California.   
  
    “Tony, I’m not sure what -” Steve tries.  
      
    “I said already. JARVIS detected something possibly hostile, possibly alien, and possibly dangerous in California. So we’re going before SHIELD gets it’s grubby little hands into another mess they can’t handle.”  
  
    This shuts Steve up, but Bucky blunders on, to Tony’s annoyance.  
  
    “If you’re that bored, Tony, next time we can go see a movie or something.” Bucky grins.

^\/|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||\^/||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||\/^

  
    Natasha lands the plane close to the original energy signature.   
  
    “Look sharp boys,” Tony says over the coms in his suit, “and girl.”  
  
    He continues, “Whatever it was dropped a few clicks west of here, but there’s no telling where it is now.”  
  
    They trek through the thick woods following Tony’s lead since he’s the one with the maps on hand. They approach carefully, Tony scanning their way for safety’s sake.  
  
    “Oh.” Tony says as they approach around the perimeter of the unknown object.  
  
    “You see what it is Tony?” Steve asks.  
  
    “Well, whoever it is, they’re alive.” Tony says.  
  
    Steve reaches the body first.   
  
    “Bucky and I will stay on perimeter guard.” Natasha informs them all.  
  
    “Hold on.” Tony tells Steve, who’s already reaching toward the prone figure on the forest floor. “Scanning for injuries.”  
  
    “JARVIS?”  
  
    “There appears to be nothing life threatening, sir.”  
  
    Tony lets his mask fold back into the suit.  
  
    “Go ahead.” He tells Steve.   
  
    Steve flips the kid’s body over to his back, checking his pulse to be sure for himself the kid’s still alive. He feels around the kid’s sweater and jeans.   
  
    “No wallet. No ID.” Steve informs him.  
  
    “JARVIS, facial recognition scan. Let me know when it’s done.”   
  
    “Affirmative, sir.” The AI responds.  
  
    The kid’s face is bloodied, as is his clothing. There’s not enough dirt on him to assume he’d been running around the woods, but that just confirms he’s been dropped here from god-knows-where.  
  
    “Area’s clear.” Nat informs them, joining Steve and Tony with Bucky at her side.  
  
    Tony goes through JARVIS’s analysis on a screen he projects from his suit’s arm.   
  
    “Seems human to me. All the right stuff in all the right places.” He jokes. “Multiple lacerations, and huh, surprisingly no broken bones.”  
  
^\/|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||\^/||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||\/^  
  
    Stiles comes to awareness with voices around him. He stays still and relaxed, taking stock of his body with closed eyes,  
  
    His head really hurts, as does his face. His arm is wet. Thanks, Malia, he admonishes silently. His left thigh feels like someone took a meat tenderizer to it for awhile. He fights the urge to flex his fingers and toes.  
  
    “… hospital.” He catches the end of someone’s sentence.   
  
    “Or we can just leave him to SHIELD.” A woman offers. He doesn’t recognize her voice.  
  
    “Aren’t you guys even a little curious? Come on! Kid drops out of nowhere, pings my magical what-the-fuck finder, and-”  
  
    The voice cuts off and then continues.  
  
    “Sleeping beauty is awake.”  
  
    Stiles opens his eyes then, pretense abandoned, to find four people looking at him from a few feet away, watching him intensely. One is in a suit of red armor, another in star-spangled spandex. The other two don’t catch his eye as odd immediately, dressed in black head to toe.  
  
    “I -” Stiles starts, sitting up, bringing his hands to examine his head first - no wet blood. Then he checks out his arm, which does seem to still be slowly leaking. He wipes the messied hand on his jeans and stands shakily, finally getting the chance to look around.  
  
    “Uh?” He exhales, questioning dumbly. Besides the four strangers around him, who are just watching him silently, there’s nothing he recognizes. There are no houses, no streets, and no people or cars. There are just trees, and plants, and dirt, and… that can’t be right.  
  
    “Where am I?” Stiles asks, then amends. “Exactly. And who are you? How did I get here? I was…” He trails off and shakes his shoulders out to relieve their stiffness. It’s not important where he was until he can figure out where he is.  
  
    Tony watches the kid’s eyes stick to him and Steve when he sees them.   
  
    “I’m Tony.” He says. The kid nods and then his eyes slide back to Steve.  
  
    “That’s Steve. Over there are Natasha and Bucky.”  
  
    “Got it, okay.” Stiles shifts his weight around to center as Steve walks closer to the other three so the kid doesn’t have to keep turning his head to see them all.  
  
    “What’s your name, kid?” Steve inquires for them all.  
  
    “Stiles.”  
  
    “Okay then, Stiles,” Tony starts. “I have a computer that tracks unusual energy signatures and a few hours ago it found you. So I convinced -”  
  
    Bucky snorts at Tony.  
  
    “Convinced,” Tony reiterates. “These completely willing folks to check it out with me. And here we are.”  
  
    Stiles raises a skeptical eyebrow but nods along anyway, still flicking his eyes over each of them cautiously.  
  
    “Where is this, though?” Stiles takes in the dense woods around them.  
  
    “Oh. Earth, USA, California.” Tony pulls up the map for all of them again. Stiles eyes widen as he steps closer to the holographic projection, their location marked with a blinking light.  
  
    “I’m still in Beacon Hills then.” Stiles notes, relieved. “Which way is the city? I’ve gotta check on my friends. It’s only been a few hours you said? Probably?”  
  
    Natasha raises her brow. “Which city?”  
  
    “Beacon Hills?” Stiles raises his eyebrows back at her.  
  
    “This is Beacon Hills.” She gestures with one arm to the woods around them.  
  
    “Yeah, obviously. I saw the map!” Stiles takes a few steps away and flings his arms around wildly.   
  
    Ow, yeah, he forgot about the cuts. He fingers the wound again, pushing his hoodie aside. It’s definitely bleeding more heavily now.  
  
    Tony pulls up the satellite imagery of the area.  
  
    “Most recent satellite surveillance: this is Beacon Hills.”  
  
    Stiles takes the few steps back, closer to the map, less wary about the strangers around him than what he’s hearing.  
  
    “Can I…?” He holds his good arm up and makes a pinching motion between his fingers.  
  
    Tony nods. “Yeah, go for it.”  
  
    Stiles brings his hand in front of the projected screen hesitantly and swipes down, moving the image. So, just like a normal screen, he notes.  
  
    He spends 30 seconds zooming in on their current area, then any area around them that isn’t blanketed by trees.  
  
    “This isn’t right. Beacon Hills is huge. Not like, huge-huge, but it’s - There’s schools, businesses, buildings. I - It’s - There’s a city! A cityscape! I don’t…” He trails off, lost.  
  
    He’s suddenly alert, taking measured steps away from Tony’s projection.  
  
    “That’s real?” Stiles confirms. “This isn’t a trick?”  
  
    “You saw it yourself, kid.” Tony says.  
  
    Which makes sense, Stiles thinks. Unless that supernatural baddie did something to his brain. Is he still alive right now? Is he even awake?  
  
    Stiles looks down and counts all his fingers. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. He looks back at the people around him and when nothing changes, he count again. Just to be sure. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10.  
  
    “Okay.” He says mostly to himself. “Okay.” He steels himself to work through the problem with the information he has already.  
  
    “You,” he points at Tony. “You said you detected me here, out of nowhere. And this isn’t Beacon Hills, not like real Beacon Hills, my Beacon Hills. So I’m what? In another dimension?”  
  
    How would that work? How would he get back? Is it one of those ones where time passes differently? Is he sure he’s awake? He counts his fingers a third time, unable to quell the urge, goes slower this time - crooks each finger when he’s done with it. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. He frowns at his hands.  
  
    “… It’s possible, anyway.” Stiles catches the end of Tony’s sentence.  
  
    “What were you doing before?” Steve questions, running a hand through his hair tiredly.  
  
    “What happened leading up to...” Tony gestures widely over Stiles’ general direction.  
  
    Stiles considers for a moment, but ultimately paints the story in broad strokes. Because… the guy has a computer that tracks energy, for fuck’s sakes. And a holographic touchscreen. And Beacon Hills is… gone… along with his pack… and his mother’s and father’s graves… and if Beacon Hills didn’t exist, what else in the world is different? Does he exist here?  
  
    “There was this guy; young-ish, long white hair, a cape, maybe?” Stiles starts, trying to remember. He’d been a little too preoccupied to pay attention.  
  
    “Anyway, appeared out of nowhere, basically. We’re used to - but anyway, no monologue or preamble, he just attacks us - me, Lydia, and Malia, I mean.”  
  
    He checks to make sure he hasn’t lost his audience with his rambling but they’re still listening as best as he can tell. He takes a deep breath, preparing to have to justify the unbelievable supernatural shit he’s about to explain.  
  
    “Okay, so this guy is like shooting, or emitting, this white light. It was more like energy, I guess. Packed a punch, knocked us all right on our asses.”  
  
    He winces dramatically at himself and continues on without meeting any of their eyes.  
  
    “We run into this house - more defensible than just taking it out in the middle of the street, you know. So I call Scott. He doesn’t pick up, but we’re getting our asses kicked. Uh,” Stiles thinks.  
  
    “Oh! So Lydia finally gets the upperhand, pushes him through a wall. So he’s outside and we all move closer to the center of the house, and I try to call Scott, and then Mason, you know, for backup, but no calls go through. Turns out, guy put up a forcefield around the house.  
  
    “Which, I know, sounds impossible. But trust me. Forcefield. So Lydia and Malia are fighting the guy and I’m supposed to get back-up but there’s a literal fucking forcefield, this red powder circling the house pretty much.  
  
    “Nothing was getting through it. Nothing. And I realized Lydia and Malia -” Stiles swallows thickly.  
  
    “So I run back inside and hit the dude over the head and it’s totally ineffective. Didn’t even flinch. Rude.” He inserts some levity, still not meeting anyone’s eyes.  
  
    “Malia’s unconscious. Lydia hits the ground and doesn’t get back up… and then… I’m here. With you guys over me. That’s it I guess. Any thoughts?”  
  
    Nobody says anything for a drawn-out period and Stiles looks back at them.  
  
    Natasha, the red head, is muttering in hushed tones to the heavily muscled dude not dressed like an American Flag. Stiles can’t remember his name. The other two appear to be listening in as well.  
  
    “I, uh, I’m not lying.” Stiles feels compelled to say.  
  
    The muscled guy in black snaps his gaze to Stiles, calculated. Stiles feels uncomfortable with the scrutiny, folding his arms carefully over his chest.  
  
    He hears the word “shield” again, but the rest of their hushed conversation eludes him. When they all turn to Stiles in unison, his heart rate picks up. He feels hunted and has to force himself to not take the involuntary step backwards his instincts are screaming at him to take. He tenses and waits for whatever is coming next.  
  
    He knows he’s too injured to put up much of a fight, or even much of a chase. They’re probably well aware too, but hell if he’s going to go down without a fight if it comes to it.  
  
    He’s flexing his fingers when Steve opens his mouth.  
  
    “Stiles,” Steve addresses formally, “Would you like somewhere to stay while we try to figure out how this happened?”  
  
    “I -” Stiles is taken by surprise. “It’s either that or living on the streets, so, yes? If that’s okay? I don’t have any money.”  
  
    Is his social security number still his here?  
  
    “I don’t t-” trust you guys. His mind catches up with his mouth. What good would it do to tell them that? “Have anything.” He finishes awkwardly.  
  
    “Well, you don’t have to worry about that, kid. I’ve got plenty of everything.” Tony smiles gleefully, mind whirring with potential tests and programs he can create to solve this mystery.  
  
    “Brucey is going to be so excited to figure this one out with me!”  
  
    “Okay.” Stiles says, shifting his weight between his feet.   
  
    “Plane’s this way.” Natasha says before turning and walking away into the woods. The rest, save the muscled guy in black, move to follow. Stiles scrambles after them, cursing the pain radiating up and down his leg.


	2. Moonrise

_I thought I'd wake up one morning and find nothing to rearrange. But dreaming is for moonrise, and moonlight ails these tired eyes._

  
  
    ‘This way’ apparently means ‘miles this way.’ Stiles grits his teeth against the now-noticeable pains along his entire body, pretty much. In addition to his leg, he’s got a stitch in his side, his ankle pounding with every step, and he’s pretty sure where Malia’s claws got him; he’s still bleeding. At least he isn’t dead.  
  
    When he sees it, Stiles doesn’t stop his mouth.  
  
    “Oh. Wow.”  
  
    “Billionaire.” Tony quips, smug smile sharpening his features.  
  
    The interior is white and beige and Stiles is 1200% sure he’s covered in blood.  
  
    Natasha settles herself into the cockpit and the rest sit comfortably in the white seats. Steve pulls a shield with more of the red, white, and blue coloring from his back and sets it carefully on the seat beside him and Tony. The other guy sits adjacent to them on a seat closer to Natasha.   
  
    “You can sit.” Tony deadpans.  
  
    Stiles looks down at himself and then at the seats.  
  
    “I’ll bleed on them.”  
  
    “Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.” Tony shrugs, putting his feet up. “Don’t worry about it. Relax. Take a load off.”  
  
    Stiles sits carefully, watching their eyes track his movements. He lets out a sigh at finally getting the weight off his leg. After 20 minutes or so, Stiles starts tapping his fingers in boredom, examining the plane around him. Tony and Steve are holding conversation, but Stiles is quickly disinterested. The other guy and Natasha seem to be holding conversation in the cockpit too, but he can’t hear anything from where he is. He figures now is as good a time as any to examine his injuries.  
  
    He unzips his hoodie, revealing a short-sleeved black tee. He peels off the hoodie carefully, before balling in up on his lap to avoid the white seats and carpeted floor as much as possible.  
  
    Stiles unsticks his sleeve from the drying blood and cranes his head, positioning his bicep to survey the damage. And yikes, Stiles thinks. One thin cut and three thick gashes on one side and another good-sized one a bit further down. He grimaces. Malia must have tried holding on to him as she landed.  
  
    Meeting the twin glances of Steve and Tony when he looks up only throws him off a bit.  
  
    “First aid kit?” He asks.  
  
    Steve stands then and retrieves it from a compartment above their head, and then shows him to the bathroom.  
  
    “Do you need any help?” He offers, handing the kit over.  
  
    “I don’t think so.” Stiles says. Steve’s smile drops a fraction so Stiles amends.  
  
    “I’ll let you know.” He smiles back and then shuts the door behind him.  
  
    The floor is blessedly plastic, or something like it. He deposits his hoodie and then strips off his shirt to rest it there too.   
  
    He finds bottled water in a cabinet and uses that to wash most of the blood off his arm. Following that, he disinfects his entire arm, then his hands, and gets to work stitching up the two widest gashes, fighting the rolls of nausea hitting him.   
  
    He has to stop after every stitch on the first cut, biting his tongue against the painful tugging sensation, but just once on the second. He’s beyond proud of himself, even if the stitches don’t look that good. He disinfects the area a second time, applies some anti-bacterial spray, and wraps it with a pad and some gauze.  
  
    When he’s done, he curses the lack of a good mirror, cleaning the blood off his face the best he can.   
  
    When he peels his jeans down to pee, he finds his leg to be what looks like one huge bruise, already turning a dark blue in most places.  
  
    “Fuck,” he exhales when he gently touches the flesh.  
  
    He finishes his business, puts his shirt back on, packs the first aid kit up, retrieves his hoodie, and leaves the bathroom.  
  
    He spends the rest of the flight imagining the many ways Malia and Lydia could be alive or dead by then. It’s probably not the best way to spend his time, he knows, but he’s worried, and scared. He has no idea what happened to them after he passed out and reappeared wherever he is now. He resolves to push the thoughts away for as long as possible.  
  
    They land in New York, immediately get into cars, and end up downtown. When they get there, Stiles almost doesn’t believe it’s their final destination, but they all enter an elevator and arrive at a private floor, where they all spread out comfortably.   
  
    Tony leaves him standing in the doorway and returns without the suit of armor.   
  
    “Cap says you probably need a couple of stitches.” He reaches a hand out to Stiles and gestures somewhere down the hallway, away from the rest of the group.  
  
    They’re all hovering around him like they’re waiting for him to snap or something.  
  
    Stiles runs his hand over the back of his neck.  
  
    “Yeah, uh, I did. I think I got it though.”  
  
    Tony stills.  
  
    “Fine. Let me take a look at it though? Then how about a shower? I’m sure we can find something for you to wear until I can get JARVIS to order you clothes.” He tells Stiles. Then, to Steve, “Maybe one of Clint’s shirts?”  
  
    “Yeah, Tony, I got it.” Steve disappears while Tony herds Stiles into the bathroom.  
  
    “I’ve got water-resistant stuff I can put over the new set.” Tony tells him as he unwinds the gauze and disposes of the pad.   
  
    Stiles is relieved to find out the wounds only wept a little since he wrapped it.   
  
    “Hey, not bad kid!” Tony examines the two closed cuts. “Done this before?”   
  
    “A few times, I guess, yeah.” Stiles confirms, closing his eyes while Tony finishes the prep and starts threading the needle through the last gash, the one he couldn’t get properly in the plane.  
  
    He’s more aware of the clenching of his teeth and the gritty breaths he exhales in pain while Tony works to close his skin than he was on the plane.   
  
    “There you have it.”  
  
    Tony finishes and goes over the gauze with opaque-looking stuff and then calls the job finished just as Steve knocks on the door to deposit a pile of clothes onto the counter.  
  
    “I’m gonna re-wrap that tomorrow, okay kid?” Tony tells more than asks.   
  
    “We’ll all be in the living room - that area at the end of the hall, to the right of the elevator - when you’re finished. Just, uh, come find us and we’ll show you around, sound good?” Steve asks, leaning awkwardly in the doorway.  
  
    “Yeah, sure. Thanks, you know, for the stitches and the clothes.” Stiles replies back, just as awkwardly.  
  
    “Of course! I’m the best host anywhere in New York. Just don’t ask anybody.” Tony jokes as he leaves, prompting Steve to lead the way.  
  
    When the door shuts behind them, Stiles lets out the breath he’d been holding.  
  
    It was just like him to dive headfirst into a situation he had no idea how to navigate. So he was here, a guest of a billionaire, in some alternate dimension, entirely alone. That kind of blows in a major way. At least he maybe, probably, had a chance to figure out what the hell had happened to him while he’s here.  
  
    The shower doesn’t do much for Stiles’ muscles, but he isn’t covered in sweat and stink anymore so it isn’t all bad. The clothes are nice: a purple short-sleeved crew neck, dark gray sweatpants, and a thick, black cardigan.   
  
    He makes his way barefoot from the bathroom and back the way he came, where he hears Tony’s voice ringing through the room.  
  
    “Ah! There you are! I already ordered pizza. We didn’t know if you’d ate yet, but we missed dinner to fly in and get your ass from the middle of California.”  
  
    “Nah, pizza sounds good. I haven’t eaten since lunch, so.” Stiles shrugs, looking around. “Can I just sit anywhere?”  
  
    “Yup, stay away from Bucky though. He bites. And strangles. And -”   
  
    “Stark.” Steve’s voice cuts in.  
  
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah. No being an asshole to anyone over age 90. I got you, Cap.”  
  
    Tony grins and Stiles is lost, so he just sits down at the dining table next to Steve.   
  
    On Steve’s other side is Bucky, while Natasha and Tony take the seats opposite them. The pizza arrives soon after.   
  
    “So you often fight crazy guys with magic powers?” Tony asks casually, biting into a slice. “We have a little bit of experience with that.”  
  
    Stiles raises his slice to his lips, but then sets it back down.   
  
    “Not really. I mean, we’ve seen some pretty crazy stuff, but no. This was the first time. It kind of blows, I mean, look what happened.” Stiles says.  
  
    Tony nods his agreement, taking another bite.   
  
    “Tell me about it.” Steve mutters. “Better than a whole alien race bent on conquering the world, though.”  
  
    Stiles chuckles in good humor. “I’d think just about anything would be better than that.”  
  
    “You have no idea.” Steve says wryly.   
  
    Stiles manages to finish a slice as the conversation dies down, but then Natasha is addressing him.  
  
    “You said ‘pretty crazy stuff.’”   
  
    Stiles swallows another mouthful of pizza before answering.  
  
    “Yeah.”  
  
    “What do you mean by that?” She clarifies, eyes focused forward.  
  
    Stiles runs through his memories as he answers.  
  
    “An angry druid sacrificing people to a magical tree stump.” He sees his dad, Melissa, and Chris, all bound to the roots of the Nemeton.   
  
    “Parascientists that were hundreds of years old, killing and resurrecting kids all over town. Ghost Riders erasing people and people’s memories, and dropping them into a supernatural weigh-station. That’s kind of the high-light reel, I guess.” He very carefully doesn't mention his time as a Nogitsune's host.  
  
    Natasha just nods at him and then returns to her slice of pizza.   
  
    Stiles is suddenly not very hungry.   
  
    “What I’d like to know more about is that forcefield you were talking about.” Tony says. “You said nothing could get through it? Is it what stopped the phone calls?”  
  
    “I don’t know. They went right to voicemail once the barrier was up, so maybe? I don’t know. There was some red powder on the ground that did it.”  
  
    As Tony mulled it over in his mind, Stiles stood up from the table suddenly feeling tight in his skin.  
  
    “I kind of actually want to go to sleep now, if that’s cool. Uh, where will I be staying?”   
  
    “Well, no offense to you, obviously, but you’re still an unknown, so I can’t give you your own floor like I did for the rest of them.” Tony reaches up to scratch the back of his neck and continues. “And leaving you alone in the tower… bad idea. Again, no offense, kid.”  
  
    “Hey, yeah, no,” Stiles shrugs, “I get it.”  
  
    “So Cap and Bucky offered a room on their floor, since you know,” Tony grins then. “Or, maybe you don’t know. But either way. Super soldiers! Between them and JARVIS, I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet anything you might try will fail, so. You know.”   
  
    “Contingencies.” Natasha supplies.   
  
    “Exactly!” Tony confirms. “Contingencies. Anyway, I’m sure Cap will show you where to go. If you ever get lost, you can just ask JARVIS. Any comments? Questions? Queries?”  
  
    Stiles looks around the table as he thinks. He has a lot of questions, but he is mostly just dead on his feet.  
  
    “Uh, clothes, maybe? How do I-”  
  
    “Oh, right! JARVIS, baby, could you send in an order for some basic toiletries and clothing for Stiles? Maybe that shampoo I like from that place in the UK?" Tony directs.  
  
    “Of course sir. Is any particular style of clothing necessary?”  
  
    “Well, I don’t know, I think there’s this gala-” Stiles cuts Tony off then.  
  
    “Just casual, uh, JARVIS. Hoodies, tees, pants, socks…” He trails off.   
  
    “Very well, sir." JARVIS says after a long moment. "Arrival is scheduled for late afternoon tomorrow.”  
  
    “Cool.” Stiles commends. “Oh, and thanks, too, buddy.”  
  
    “You’re very welcome, sir.”  
  
    Silence falls between the group settled around him, and Stiles uses that moment to stand up straighter and stretch his muscles out. All eyes fall to him as he moves a bit further from the table.  
  
    “So, the sleeping arrangements?” He looks at Bucky and Steve, who both rise.  
  
    “You got the last of the pizza?” Steve directs to Tony.  
  
    “Yeah, sure Cap, hasta manana!” Tony pulls a pizza box closer to him and grabs another slice, raising an eyebrow in their direction.   
  
    Stiles raises a brow back in question but Tony looks away to Natasha and begins a conversation.   
  
    “This way.” Steve says, leading the way back into the hallway towards the elevator.  
  
    “Yeah, okay, coming.” Stiles says as he follows the two through the building.  
  
    The private floor is remarkably similar to the common room floor, from what Stiles can tell. There’s the same layout, same kitchen, same living room, and same hallway of doors that the elevator opens up to. Steve points out his room, Bucky’s room, and the bathroom, and then walks him through the rest of the apartment. They have a mini-gym, “mini” because apparently there’s also an entire set of floors that are all gyms, a sauna room, a movie room, and an art room, which has Steve blushing upon revealing.  
  
    It’s all really cool, state-of-the-art shit, which leaves Stiles a little excited and a lot cowed. They show Stiles into a room that puts them directly between Stiles and the elevator. He’s less than surprised when Bucky regards him coldly and issues a warning.   
  
    “Do not try to escape. Do not attempt to hurt anyone. JARVIS is watching. I'll be watching. I will stop you and it will hurt.”   
  
    Bucky’s face doesn’t betray any emotion during his stern lecture. Stiles feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Steve just watches Bucky speak, allowing him to say his piece before leaving Stiles to his own devices.   
  
    “I didn’t plan on it.” Stiles’ voice hedges into bitterness. “I don’t exist. There’s nowhere else I can go anyway.”  
  
    Steve claps his hand over Bucky’s shoulder and takes over the bedtime edict.  
  
    “Glad that’s settled then. I make breakfast around 8, if you want me to wake you up?” He offers.  
  
    “Yeah, okay, that sounds good. Thanks. I’m gonna...” Stiles points behind himself to the guest bed.   
  
    Stiles is studiously avoiding resting his glance on Bucky as they say their good-nights.   
  
    With the door firmly shut, and his two roommates departed, Stiles trudges over to the bed and flops down over the edge, feet still resting on the floor. He thinks he had a nightmare like this once, where nobody knew him and he was lost in the middle of a big city with no way home.   
  
    And that’s not something he wants to think about, but the images behind his closed eyes assault him anyway. And still, it’s better than thinking about how his pack is holding up back home. He’s asleep before he can think of standing back up or getting under the covers.   
  
    Tony barges into his room, waking him abruptly, the next morning.  
  
    “No time for breakfast, kid. Bruce got back a few hours ago and decided we should run tests as soon as possible, so food’s gonna have to wait awhile.”   
  
    Stiles yawns and shifts to sitting. “What time is it?”  
  
    “7:30 in the morning, Mr. Stiles.” JARVIS echoes out and Stiles slowly makes his way to standing.  
  
    “Yeah, alright, up you get, sleeping beauty. Tests to run. Blood to take. Bruces to meet, and all that. Come on.” Tony herds Stiles out of his room and to the elevator.   
  
    “Bruce’s lab, JARVIS.”  
  
    “Certainly.” The AI responds as the elevator begins it’s descent.   
  
    The elevator doors open to thick concrete walls and a huge metal door. Stiles thinks it resembles a nuclear warhead containment zone, more than a lab, from the outside, but the inside is glass and thin metal and as electronic and advanced as the rest of the building that he’s seen.   
  
    “Dr. Bruce Banner.” The man introduces himself with an outstretched hand as they make their way past the veritable blast doors into the lab.  
  
    “Stiles Stilinski.” Stiles extends his hand to shake. “Nice to meet you.”  
  
    “Yes, I’m sure.” Bruce smiles wryly, taking his hand back. “So I need to take a few samples and run a few tests. It’ll probably take close to an hour, I’m guessing. I also have a lot of questions I’d like to ask, if all of that’s alright with you.”  
  
    Tony pulls a wheeled stool over to a row of screens and starts playing with them, and Bruce gestures Stiles to follow him to Tony’s side.  
      
    “It’s all good.” Stiles informs Bruce as they make their way to Tony. “I mean, I want to figure out how to get back home, and Tony says you can probably help with that, so, it’s fine.”  
  
    “I wouldn’t like to get your hopes up, Stiles. If there is anything we can do, we’ll try, but this is largely unexplored territory. So-”   
  
    Tony cuts Bruce off, dismissing something on his screen. “So, basically, we’re going to try but maybe make a plan in case it doesn’t work out, right Brucey?”  
  
    Bruce sighs and rubs at his temples, but nods. The sinking feeling in Stiles’ gut must show on his face, so Bruce quickly amends.  
  
    “We will try everything to get you back home safely, though.”  
  
    “No stone unturned.” Tony confirms.  
  
    They have JARVIS run multiple scans over his entire body, take blood and skin samples, samples of his hair, samples of his urine, and have him go over what happened the night he got sent to this universe. They ask questions about world events in his universe, and compare it to their own. It leaves Stiles reeling but unabashedly talkative. It seems like they really are trying to help, so it eases some of the stress that's been settling over his bones since the previous night.


	3. A Sense of Control

_So you feel entitled to a sense of control and make decisions that you think are your own. You are a stranger here. Why have you come?_

  
  
    It’s been a lot longer than an hour by the time he’s excused to leave the lab, and he’s feeling more than exhausted by the time he returns to what everybody is referring to as “Steve and Bucky’s” floor.   
  
    He shambles into the kitchen and finds Bucky leaning over the central counter with a steaming mug of coffee, eyes already tracking him. Stiles is too tired to deal with this.  
  
    “Morning.” Stiles greets uncomfortably, moving to the Keurig he spots on the counter. “Is there food left?”  
  
    Bucky gives him a nod and moves to extract a plate from the oven.   
  
    “Steve put some away when JARVIS said you were in the lab with Tony.” Bucky sets the plate on the counter next to Stiles and gets him a mug from the cupboard above them and a fork from the dishwasher. “The Keurig cups are underneath.”  
  
    Stiles finds the cups in a shallow drawer and extracts one, digging into the eggs and pancakes immediately after setting the coffee to drip.   
      
    “Ugh, thank you so much. And Steve, too. I thought I was going to die of hunger and caffeine deprivation down there.”   
  
    “Devastating news.” Bucky deadpans, causing Stiles to laugh around the bite in his mouth.   
  
    “You’re telling me.” Stiles replies, finally taking a sip of the hot brew from the machine. “Ah, that’s nice.”  
  
    Bucky leans back, into the countertop in the center of the room, facing Stiles and still drinking from his cup. Stiles matches his posture and leans against the countertop with the Keurig on it, still sipping from his own hot mug.   
  
    “So?” Stiles asks, pretty sure there’s a reason Bucky’s there with him in the kitchen still.   
  
    Bucky takes another slow drink from his cup before answering.   
  
    “Steve’s got a mission.” He punctuates with another swallow. “He’ll be gone about a week, so it’ll be just us here.”   
  
    “A mission?” Stiles asks, lost.   
  
    Bucky gives him a small smirk. “He’s Captain America.”  
  
    As if that would explain anything. Well, it does explain why Tony called Steve ‘Cap’. But beyond that? Nothing.   
  
    “I don’t know if you remember, but I’m not from around here. This world. So. I mean? Captain America, okay, explains the red, white, and blue stuff. But that’s like me telling you Scott’s going to be awfully hairy when he finds out I’m gone. See? No context. You get it but you don’t get it. And I don’t get it.”  
  
    “Okay.” Bucky allows. “We work under SHIELD. They are the good guys, mostly. It’s government, but we also, or the Avengers really, work together to save the world from enemies. Steve is out fighting the good fight, like he always has.”  
  
    “The Avengers?” Stiles questions.  
  
    “You’ve met most of them. Steve, Natasha, Tony, Bruce. The rest aren't here: Clint, Thor, Sam.”  
      
    “Not you?”   
  
    Bucky grits his teeth. “Not yet.”  
  
    Stiles is smart enough to know when to drop a subject, especially with someone who’s already threatened him, good intentions or no.  
  
    “Got it. No further questions.” He says, and looks to his empty plate. “Wait, actually, further questions. What’s the deal around here? Do we all just stay on our floors? Do we eat dinner together? Are there computers somewhere? And what’s the wifi password?”  
  
    “Ask Stark.” At Stiles’ blank look, he re-iterates. “Tony.”  
  
    “Okay. Tony Stark. Stark, Tony. Got it. JARVIS, where’s Tony?” Stiles asks.  
  
    “Mr. Stark has gone to his workshop and has asked to not be disturbed.” JARVIS answers.  
  
    “That’s…” Stiles trails off. “Okay, then, I guess. Nevermind.”  
  
    Stiles brings his plate to the sink to wash and sets another coffee to brew. He sees Bucky preparing to leave the kitchen.  
  
    “Hey, where ya going? Got plans today?” Stiles questions, not sure how he’s going to spend his time at Tony’s tower.  
  
    “Gym.” Is Bucky’s terse reply.   
  
    “Oh, okay. See ya then.” Stiles offers. Bucky leaves without a glance back.  
  
    After washing his plate and fork, and drinking 4 more cups of coffee, Stiles is walking back and forth in the large living space on his floor. He hasn’t found a single computer or phone or tablet, which is pretty weird for such a high-tech-fancy-schmancy place like this. He resolves to leave the floor and check out the common floor he was in last night, after another cup of coffee.   
  
    He enters the elevator and gets out to the common floor easily enough, but it’s as deserted as his own floor was. He sighs and drops his head to the wall with a thud. He’s bored. More than that, he’s b o r e d.   
  
    “JARVIS?” He tries, lifting his head towards the ceiling.  
  
    “Mr. Stark is still otherwise occupied, Mr. Stilinski.”   
  
    He thumps his head on the wall again. “Okay, thanks.”  
  
    “Careful with that. Unless you're trying to hurt yourself.” Someone teases.  
  
    Stiles whirls around to face the stranger, who’s leaning against the wall across from the elevator grinning in good humor.   
  
    “Who are you?” Stiles demands, only a little embarrassed at being so straight-forward and out of his element.   
  
    “Clint.” The guy nods at him and walks closer to him. “And you’re Stiles. Nat asked me to come over to the tower, since Cap’s gone off on a mission.”  
  
    “Extra security, yeah, I got it. You a ‘super soldier’ too?” Stiles asks.  
  
    “Nah.” Clint winks. “I’m a Super Spy.”  
  
    “Sure, okay, why not.” Stiles says.   
  
    Clint leans his back on the wall near Stiles and crosses a leg over the other, looking every bit comfortable and relaxed.  
  
    “So you got plans today?” Clint asks, turning his head to regard Stiles.  
  
    “Besides dying of boredom?” Stiles deadpans. “Literally nothing. Absolutely nada. Waiting for Tony to get done with whatever he’s doing so I can get on the internet. Hopefully before I do end up dying of boredom. Who knows.”  
  
    “Come to the gym with me.” Clint offers. “I need a sparring partner.”  
  
    That sounds like a bad idea, the voice in Stiles’ head intrudes. Probably not as bad an idea as his more recent decisions, like rooming with a possibly homicidal ‘super soldier’, or throwing a lamp over the head of the guy who took down two badasses like Lydia and Malia, but still a bad idea.   
  
    “I’m still injured.” Stiles says.  
  
    “Stitches in your arm, right? Did Tony spray his stuff on it?” Clint asks.  
  
    “Yeah… and yeah.” Stiles confirms.  
  
    “Then it’s all good. That stuff’s like magic, really. Come on, it’ll be fun. We’ll do something else after, keep the boredom at bay.” Clint says.  
  
    Stiles is dubious, still, but there's not much else to do, after all. He’s the king of bad decisions, making sure he doesn’t break his streak.  
  
    “I don’t have anything else to wear until later.” He warns.   
  
    “Eh, you can borrow some more of my stuff if you get smelly and gross.” Clint shrugs.  
  
    “Sure, then.” Stiles offers a reluctant smile. “Why not?”  
  
    Clint grins at him, and for the second time that day, he’s herded into the elevator.   
  
    “Wow. Nice place.” Stiles compliments upon seeing the gym in it's full glory, taking in the high ceiling and variety of equipment on the floor. The entire space is open, mirrors on the far wall, with all variety of weight and cardio machines.   
  
    Stiles shrugs off the black cardigan and drapes it over a coat hook by the door. Clint starts by stretching, so Stiles does the same. He doesn’t really spar much, mostly because sparring with his were-friends is a losing battle on a good day. He and Lydia did for awhile, but after she started using her Banshee-Voice as a weapon, she began practicing with Parrish, and the other wolves, leaving Stiles to his own devices most of the time.   
  
    He wasn’t bitter about it, because she deserved to get practice in, but it still kind of stung a bit. Who else was there for him to practice with, after all?   
  
    Clint hops on to a treadmill and gestures for him to hop on the one next to him, but Stiles declines.  
  
    “Warm up.” Clint explains.   
  
    “My leg sucks right now, so running is a no-go.” Stiles tells him.   
  
    “Nat didn’t say.” Clint says, working up to a slow jog on the machine.   
  
    “She didn’t know.” Stiles guesses. “It’s all bruised up. It should be fine in a few days, though.”  
  
    Stiles sits on the floor and goes through a few extra stretches while Clint continues his warm up.   
  
    Clint hops off the treadmill, wipes down the display, and then offers Stiles a hand up.   
  
    “Alright, you ready?” Clint asks, walking closer to the center of the room, where a large impact mat takes up the majority of the floor.  
  
    Stiles feels his stomach hit the floor for a long second in anxiety before he shakes himself and nods.   
  
    “Okay then.” Clint takes a few steps away from Stiles to face him. “So what have you done before?”  
  
    A red flag goes off in Stiles’ head at the question, but he answers anyway.  
  
    “Self-defense, mostly. My friend did the thing with all the flips, but that was mostly her slamming me into the floor, so I don’t know if it counts. Uh,” he runs through his mind for answers, “I guess that’s it. But I’ve been in some fights, too, and that’s most of it.”  
  
    “Okay, cool.” Clint says, moving immediately to throw a punch at Stiles. Stiles manages to block it, but his ass hits the mat before he realizes Clint was swiping his feet out from under him, using the punch as a distraction.  
  
    “Shit.” Stiles groans, taking the hand up Clint offers. “Not fair.”  
  
    “It’s fighting.” Clint shrugs in explanation. Which, fair enough, Stiles thinks. “Again?”  
  
    This time, when Clint punches, Stiles blocks and moves to land his own punch on Clint’s torso. Two seconds later, he’s flat on his ass again.   
  
    Stiles gets up to his feet and Clint starts the routine from the beginning. Clint punches, Stiles blocks and evades, lands his own punch, and then evades again, only for Clint to launch him over his back and back onto the floor.   
  
    “Motherfucker.” Stiles groans and takes a deep breath in, telling himself fighting Clint is no different from fighting a regular big-bad. Except, he has no back up. So, he’ll have to be a little ruthless. He’ll have to be a little, and he refuses to ever acknowledge what Theo called him consciously, but he’d have to be a little Void - He'd have to stop being so cautious and controlled.  
  
    And it isn’t like a switch flipped, Stiles or Void, Human or Monster. No, it was like letting go, a little bit. Like actually inhaling oxygen down to the bottom of his lungs, for a change. He takes Clint’s proffered hand, but instead of using it to stand and take a step back, he uses it to reel Clint in towards his knee.   
  
    Stiles rams the limb into Clint’s torso and uses one of Lydia’s moves (thanks Lydia, he thinks) to vault over Clint and flip Clint’s weight over him, so that this time Clint is the one on the mat.   
  
    Clint is standing in record time, assessing Stiles. Stiles raises an eyebrow to mock him, and Clint surges forward to land a punch. Stiles doesn’t know if the punch is a feint or not, considering Clint has used an near-equal amount of feints and true punches so far, so Stiles decides to use a feint of his own, pretending he intends to block the incoming blow.  
  
    Instead, he adjusts to the side, grabbing and bracing Clint’s arm, straightened for the punch, and twists himself so Clint has to follow a spin outward from his body. Stiles tries to kick Clint’s feet out from under him, but the man maneuvers away from Stiles, after loosening his grip with a well-aimed kick. Clint lands in a roll and blocks Stiles’ next attack, and, surprise, flips Stiles so he lands on the floor on his back. Again.  
  
    “Okay, okay. I give.” Stiles says, helping himself up. His leg is throbbing something painfully, and after hitting the floor so many times, he’s not eager to do it again. “That was fun.” Sweat’s dripping down his back and front from around the collar of the shirt, but he’s not that winded.   
  
    Clint tosses him a water bottle and joins him to sit on the bench by the door.  
  
    “So, you’re not all that bad.” Clint compliments.  
  
    “Yeah, and you’re not bad… at all.” Stiles counters.  
      
    Clint laughs. “Well, I’ve had years of training in this kind of stuff, so it wouldn’t make sense if I couldn’t take you down. You put up a good fight though.”  
  
    “When it’s live or possibly-be-maimed-to-death, you learn to put up a good fight.” Stiles gives a wry laugh. “Obviously, I still need practice, though.”  
  
    “Nah, don’t be too hard on yourself. Plenty of trained men can’t take me down either. You're injured, and I’m a super spy, after all.” He wiggles his eyebrows at Stiles, and it lightens the mood considerably.  
  
    “Alright, fair enough. Now, I need a change of clothes and a shower.” Stiles says, retrieving the cardigan and draping it over his arm.   
  
    “Of course! JARVIS! My abode!”  
  
    The elevator door opens and JARVIS mutters an ‘of course, Mr. Barton’ and takes them swiftly to Clint’s floor.  
  
    “So.” Stiles starts, freshly showered and fully dressed, again, in one of Clint’s ensembles. “Purple.”  
  
    “Yeah, duh. It’s a great color. Takes me to new heights.” Clint explains.   
  
    Stiles is about to open his mouth to ask, what exactly that could mean, when Natasha enters the apartment.  
  
    “Oh, heights like a purple mountain majesty, maybe?” She offers.   
  
    “That joke is better suited to Cap.” Clint confesses.   
  
    “You don’t think?” Stiles replies sardonically. “JARVIS, buddy, Tony still busy?”  
  
    “No sir, however he and Bruce do require you in the lab.”  
  
    “I’ll take you down.” Natasha says before Stiles can say anything. Her tone doesn’t leave room for argument. “I’m headed out, anyway. Just came to say goodbye.”  
  
    “Does this have anything to do with?” Clint makes a face that Natasha, apparently, understands completely.  
  
    “No. This is something else. I don’t anticipate being gone longer than 3 days.”   
  
    “Kick some ass, Tash.” Clint pulls his face into a rough grin.  
  
    “Is there any other way?” She replies, teasing. “Come on, Stiles. The boys are waiting."  
  
    “So Bucky says you guys do missions.” Stiles hedges as they make their way to Bruce’s lab. “This one of them?”  
  
    “This one is self-directed.” She answers without preamble. “And for Bucky.”  
  
    Not knowing what to say to that, Stiles just nods in understanding.   
  
    “Clint’s a good fighter.” Stiles says. “He sparred with me.”  
  
    “Did he?” Natasha asks. Stiles is well-versed enough in what she’s not saying, thanks to having a father on the police force. What she’s asking isn’t ‘did that happen?’ She’s prompting him into giving more information, the kind she wouldn’t know to ask for explicitly.   
  
    “He said you called him here to take Steve’s place in watching me. And now he knows he can knock me over in less than 15 seconds. So, yeah. He did.”  
  
    She’s quiet for a moment, contemplating. “Good.” She decides.  
  
    “Good for you, maybe. I think I’m bruised enough as it is.” Stiles jokes.   
  
    She gives him a wry smile and leaves him at the opening doors to Bruce’s lab. As she turns away, Stiles calls out.  
  
    “Have fun, Natasha!” He grins at her red hair and receding figure.  
  
    “Always do.” She responds, not turning back.   
  
    “So what’s crackalackin?” Stiles asks as he enters the lab.   
  
    Bruce stands swiftly, knocking his chair over backwards. He flinches at the noise before bending down to right it.   
  
    “Mr. Stilinski.” He greets, hand outreached.  
  
    “Just Stiles is okay.” He grasps the hand to shake.  
  
    “Okay, Stiles then.” Bruce loosely sets his free hand to the small of Stiles’ back, leading him to a low, cushioned sofa. “We need to talk.”  
  
    Stiles sits alongside Bruce, heart-thumping too loudly in his chest.  
  
    “Sounds ominous, Doc.” Stiles teases.   
  
    Bruce gives him a too-kind smile, the kind someone gives right before they tell you ‘Your mother’s not going to make it, Stiles, there is no cure’, or ‘There's a good chance he’ll survive the surgery’, or even worse, ‘He was dead on impact, Stiles. There was nothing we could have done.’ Stiles clenches his hands into fists on his thighs, willing himself to take deeper breaths.  
  
    “So far there’s nothing in your biology I can really say is different from the rest of us. Tony flew back to California and took some samples and scans, and the data is still being compiled now, but it doesn’t seem like anything is out of the ordinary.” Bruce pulls a tablet out from behind him and sets the screen so Stiles can see it.  
  
    “These,” he points to the left side of the screen, “Are samples from when you first dropped through the portal last night. And these,” he gestures to the right side, “Are samples from a few hours ago.”  
  
    Stiles can’t tell exactly what is being measured, only that the results are strikingly similar, only off by a small margin in every column.   
  
    “Yikes.” Stiles hears himself say.  
  
    “Yeah.” Bruce confirms. “We’re going to check the data every few days, but excluding when the actual portal appeared, there are no changes to anything we’ve found. By all verifiable data, you’re just the same as the rest of us.”  
  
    Stiles nods, but Bruce continues.  
  
    “Well, the same as the rest of human-us, anyway.”  
  
    Bruce continues on, not affected by this news the same as Stiles is.  
  
    “My initial thought is, except for waiting for a portal to reappear, there’s not much else we can do right now. We still have the program running, and JARVIS is always watching it, so we won’t miss anything.”  
  
    Bruce takes a deep breath and then lets one of his hands rest over one of Stiles’, bringing him back to the present moment. Stiles unclenches his hand and feels where his nails have broken the skin of his palm.   
  
    “Yeah, alright, Doc. Thanks.” His voice comes out flat and Bruce pulls away.   
  
    “Tony’s caught up in something right now, but he said you’re due for a re-bandaging? If you want, I can take care of that for you.” Bruce offers.   
  
    Stiles shrugs, stands, and deposits his (Clint’s) shirt over the back of the small couch, waiting for Bruce to get the medical kit. When Bruce turns to the sofa, his eyes track over Stiles, starting from the bandage on his arm, roving over the few scars on his chest, and landing finally on the large, thick, scar running horizontally through his lower belly.   
  
    He sees multiple thoughts running through Bruce’s head before the man decides not to ask, instead approaching Stiles and guiding him to sit so he can work.   
  
    There’s a second spray that renders Tony’s “magic” cast to be worked off in chunks. Bruce pokes at the closed stitches and cleans them up, putting what's probably anti-bacterial goop over it, and then re-gauzing and re-applying Tony’s “magic” cast.  
  
    “Thanks.” Stiles says, putting the shirt back on.   
  
    Bruce steadies himself with re-packing the kit, telling himself he’s not going to ask, but his curiosity wins out over his caution.   
  
    “So what happened?” He asks, looking pointedly at the spot covered by Clint’s shirt. “It looks like-”  
  
    “Yeah. I know what it looks like.” Stiles interrupts evenly. “But it’s not. I mean, it wasn’t me. I didn’t-”  
  
    “Right. Sorry if I overstepped, it’s just I don’t often see ritual suicide wounds on people walking around, still alive, anyway.” Bruce steps away from the couch and puts his med kit away wherever it came from, studiously avoiding looking at Stiles.   
  
    Stiles wants to revel in it, a little bit, as a ‘fuck you’ to Bruce for even asking. But Bruce seems like a really kind guy, so he’s feeling mixed emotions about being an asshole to the guy just for making him uncomfortable.  
  
    “It’s fine, I guess.” Stiles mollifies. “I mean, I don’t talk about it, so you caught me off my game. It’s pretty easy to forget it’s there, most of the time. So, you know, not your fault for wondering. I’d be curious, too.”  
  
    “Does anyone else know about it?” Bruce asks, eyes still away, facing a computer screen.  
  
    “Everybody back home.”   
  
    “Alright. I can keep it to myself, here, if you want me to.” Bruce offers.  
  
    “It’s not-” Stiles starts. “It’s not a big secret or anything. I just don’t like to talk about it.”  
  
    “I get that.” Bruce informs him. “More than you know.”  
  
    “Right so we’re done here?” Stiles asks, standing.   
  
    “Yeah, unless there’s something else you need?”  
  
    “Actually.” Stiles says. “Internet access would be good.”


	4. Pound for Pound

_Let me down slow. Help me go slow, I've been carrying on. I'm not scared of nothing. I'll go pound for pound. I keep death on my mind like a heavy crown._

  
  
    “God bless the internet.” Stiles sighs, leaning further into the plush sofa in Bucky and Steve’s suite, tablet in hand. Bucky is sat with a book in his hands on the other end of the couch, leaning against the armrest with his legs crossed. He raises an eyebrow dubiously at Stiles.  
  
    “Thought it was ‘God bless America.’” He comments lightly.  
  
    “Maybe if I was your friend star, stripes, and spangles.” Stiles quips. “But for me, nothing more worthy of worship than the good old information highway.”  
  
    “Praise be.” Stiles adds happily after hearing Bucky’s disbelieving snort.  
  
    “Tell me you aren’t going to give me a ‘back in my day’ speech.” Stiles begs dramatically. “I got plenty of those from my dad, believe me. As if researching online isn’t just as hard as doing it the old-fashioned way.”  
  
    “Never was one much for research.” Bucky answers, turning back to his book.   
  
    “Alright, fair enough.” Stiles takes the dismissal readily and goes back to surfing Wikipedia, catching up on world events in this alternate reality.   
  
    He eventually, and by eventually, he means almost immediately, ends up reading on the Avengers. He isn’t really looking, per se, but they’re tangled up in pretty much every major news event, so it was inevitable, really. He has a tenuous grasp on his self-control anyway.  
  
    He finds Tony Stark first, a billionaire-weapons-manufacturer turned superhero (Iron Man) after 3 months captivity in Afghanistan. Veritable genius. Heir to a fortune, even discounting all the money he’s made himself.   
  
    From there, he abandons all pretense and searches out information on the others, taking notes in his head as he goes.  
  
    Captain America, Steve Rogers, underwent an experiment in the 1940’s and is, actually, a super soldier, much to Stiles’ surprise. He fought in WWII, alongside Bucky Barnes. World War II... what the fuck? He opens the link to Bucky in a new tab and continues reading about Steve’s illustrious pre-1950’s life as a showboat and an actor. Captain America sunk a plane filled with nukes into ice and slept for 70 years. That’s… wow. Okay. He goes back to the Avengers page and clicks the next link after Captain America.  
  
    Bruce Banner, the Hulk, tried to recreate the experiment that made Steve better, faster, and stronger. He failed, and turns into a giant green rage-monster occasionally. He apparently never talks about it, ever, because the page is surprisingly short, highlighting his scientific achievements, and then segueing directly to a long list of damages he’s caused. He clicks back, then loads up the next page.  
      
    Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, former KGB assassin, former SHIELD asset, with hundreds of confirmed kills. She apparently pulled a Snowden two years ago, dumping all the classified data SHIELD and Hydra (he clicks that link) had online, including that of herself and the Winter Soldier, which helped to clear Bucky Barnes’ name during the proceeding trials.   
  
    He clicks ‘Winter Soldier’ and scrolls through the page in abject horror, distinctly remembering just then that he’s sitting in full view of the guy, of Bucky Barnes, so he ought to relax his posture and calm his heart.  
  
    Former US sniper Sgt James Barnes. Prisoner of war. Brainwashed Hydra assassin. He spent 75 years going in and out of cryogenic freeze. He lived through decades of depravity and torture. There was a firestorm of a trial that lasted months and a rehabilitation (without restitution) that left him completely cleared of all charges. He’s also an enhanced human with a beta version of Steve’s serum running through his blood. And has a metal arm. His arm looks fleshy enough now, but the proof was in the pudding. Or the page. The pictures proved it anyway.  
  
    Stiles closes all of his tabs as quickly as he can manage, opening 5 new ones on various image boards to keep his head busy. He’s scrolling through the pages not really reading any headlines. He can feel Bucky’s eyes on him and scrambles to delete his internet history while still seeming calm from the outside. Stiles feels like he just overstepped around 20 bounds in one go. The air in the room seems to get tighter, harder to hold on to.  
  
    He’s decidedly not looking at Bucky when Bucky clears his throat to get his attention. Stiles minimizes the window and looks up like an animal caught in a trap. Something in Bucky’s eyes lets him know that he’s being as transparent as he thinks he’s being.  
  
    “You alright?” Bucky asks, startling a laugh out of Stiles.   
  
    “A-Okay, totally good,” Stiles rambles, “prima ballerina, awesome, great. Thanks. What about you?”  
  
    Bucky stares blankly at Stiles but answers after a long silence.  
  
    “It’s been a good day.”  
  
    “Good news!” Stiles stands abruptly, clenching the tablet tight in his hands. “Gotta blast.”  
  
    "Stiles, listen." Bucky stops Stiles from passing him with a hand gently placed over his forearm. "I'm not the best with -" He cuts himself off.  
  
    "What I mean," Bucky tries again, standing to look at Stiles fully. "What I mean is you're completely out of your depth. We all are. If you need to talk or anything..." He offers. "Everybody here is nice most of the time."  
  
    "No, yeah. Uh. I know." Stiles stammers. "Um, thank you. But, I'm good. Really. Totally fine. Cool as ice. Fuck, not ice. I didn't mean ice! I meant just - Fuck. Yeah, okay. I'm going to go smother myself with a pillow instead of continuing this conversation. Okay, good talk."  
  
    He pulls his arm from Bucky's grip, or he tries to, but Bucky's grasp has grown a fraction too tight for the meager effort to have worked as smoothly as he had hoped. Stiles turns around instead to meet Bucky's gaze, pulling a Derek and staring pointedly from Bucky back to where his hand still lies.  
  
    "Sorry." Bucky drops his hand away as if pained. Stiles gives a nod of acquiescence.   
  
    "Same." Stiles mumbles. "I read your wiki. The page about you on the internet." He clarifies, just in case Bucky doesn't know.  
  
    Bucky stands straight, closing off his expression like he's waiting for judgement. Stiles's heart pangs for him a little bit.  
  
    "It's awful dude, I'm so sorry. Which, I mean, obviously. You've probably heard that a million times already. You don't need me telling you that. But I did anyway, I guess. Sorry." Stiles rants, trying to get the point across. "But like, I relate. Not like, relate, obviously. But yeah... Having to do things you can't control. Being the backseat driver in a car that's barrelling over a cliff. Not great."  
  
    "You relate." Bucky repeats. A shard of glass sticks between Stiles's lungs.  
  
    "Ha! No! I mean, god no. But yeah, I mean, a little. Don't look into it too much. I'm just. I'm saying. Fuck, what am I saying? I really don't want to do this right now." Stiles says, inching away from Bucky closer to the door. What he wouldn't give to sleep for the rest of the afternoon and night, and just forget this ever happened. Have Bucky forget this happened.  
  
    Stiles has barely reached the doorway when he falls flat on his ass, jarred from something that's shaken the entire foundation of the apartment. Sirens go off a moment later, leaving Stiles staring dumbfounded at Bucky.   
  
    "We'll talk later." Bucky promises as another explosion sends him falling back into the couch.   
  
    _Someone's sieging the tower_ is the first thought he has following the earth-jarring explosion. Well, since he's so high up, it's more likely to be floor-jarring in all honesty, but it doesn't have the same ring to it. Bucky's standing at attention through further blasts by the time Stiles is upright again. God damn super soldiers. God damn werewolves. God damn everything.  
  
    "Take these." Bucky takes three knives in holsters sitting in the cupboard under the counter and hands them over, quickly resuming his actions to put on what is unmistakeably battle attire. "One in your boot, one in your sleeve, one in the small of your back, by your belt."   
  
    Stiles quickly complies, because, what else is there to do? His heart is pounding like a war drum already.   
  
    "What's happening? What are we going to do?" Stiles asks, pulling the tail of his shirt to cover the knife on his back.   
  
    "We're getting out." Bucky answers.   
  
    "What about everybody else?" Stiles has to ask. He doesn't know where Clint is, or Bruce, or Tony. He hasn't seen either of them for hours.   
  
    Bucky lets a smile cross his face before he hardens it again. "They can handle themselves."  
  
    "Handgun." Bucky says as he deposits it in Stiles's hands. "Don't shoot me. Don't shoot Clint. The rest can handle a bullet. The gun has 14 shots. Try to aim for anything uncovered." He gives Stiles another clip. "Don't have much here, unfortunately."  
  
    "Fuck!" Stiles breathes, shaking the tension out of his body. "Yeah, okay, yeah. This is good. Okay, let's get going."  
  
    "Avoid the elevator." Bucky says when Stiles makes his way to it. "Stairs."  
  
    "What? Why?"   
  
    The lights and sirens echoing through the building slow to nothing before the question is even fully out of his mouth. A moment passes and all the lights go out, leaving Stiles and Bucky in sheer blackness. Dim orange emergency lights start up a few seconds later.   
  
    "This is like a horror movie." Stiles grips the gun a little tighter in his hand by his side.   
  
    "Quiet." Bucky demands, slinking around corners and then motioning for Stiles to follow.   
  
    "Quiet." Stiles mouths silently, mocking him. Bucky sends an exasperated look his way before continuing to the stairway.  
  
    He puts up a hand at Stiles when they reach the heavy steel door that probably opens to the stairs. Unlike most buildings, there isn't a small glass window that lets you see through the door, which is a major design flaw in Stiles's opinion. Bucky motions again, directs him to raise the firearm and point it at the door. Stiles does, finger still off the trigger but itching to fire. He takes a deep breath in when Bucky twists the handle and steps to the side. Then the door is fully opened.   
  
    Stiles approaches. The stairwell looks empty enough, but they can hear something going on somewhere, probably closer to where Tony, Bruce, or Clint are. How are they supposed to get out of the building? Was it too much to ask that nobody would notice them?  
  
    "Come on. Now." Bucky leads.   
  
    Stiles can only think about how ill-prepared he is for this. What was he thinking, assuming he'd be safe and comfortable just because all his wolfy-friends were back in a different universe? For fucks sakes, he knew they were superheroes already, so this shouldn't be such a surprise. And yet, here he is, rushing down flights of stairs after Bucky, trusting his safety to a stranger, practically. Although, once you read the wiki on somebody, they're much less mysterious and unknowable. So maybe not a stranger. Someone less strangerly. Still, he's fucked on his own, without Bucky, so he can't complain too much.  
  
    "Stop." Bucky stage-whispers as he approaches the door on the floor they've just reached. He presses his ear to the door for a millisecond and then nods at Stiles, who raises his gun much in the same fashion as before. Bucky throws the door open to what seems like an empty space. As he steps through, Stiles hears a gun fire.   
  
    "Fuck! Sorry, sorry!" Clint apologizes, rushing forward and pulling Stiles through the door to shut it firmly behind him. Bucky's looking at his arm in distaste. The flesh isn't marred at all.  
  
    "Shut up, you're fine." Clint says, leading Stiles by the arm further into the floor. Bucky follows at a march behind them.   
  
    They stop in the middle of a bedroom. Clint's probably. Probably. Clint stands on one of the dressers and removes a vent grate from the ceiling, before vaulting himself up into it.  
  
    "Uh? This is our escape plan?" Stiles asks dubiously.  
  
    Clint pops back out of the vent and hands Stiles a folded up piece of paper and a handheld flashlight.   
  
    "This is your hiding plan." He corrects. "Maps of the vents. Most of them, anyway. There are a few exits but you'll probably want to stay in there if there are still goons around."   
  
    "What? Why do I have to hide?" Stiles complains.   
  
    "We're specialized. You're deadweight. Once we've neutralized enough of them, they'll retreat. Just gotta hold out until then." Bucky supplies.   
  
   Stiles isn't unused to being deadweight, so the admission doesn't hurt. It's just facts. Factz. True Factz. True Factz that don't sting at all. Sure, he can hide in the ventilation system. It's probably safe enough, since Clint's mapped it out already, apparently. He doesn't really want to stay out of the fray- out  of the fight, but if he ends up getting someone hurt by being deadweight he'd probably never stop blaming himself. So he stands on the same dresser as Clint and pulls himself up into the vents.   
  
    "Hey! Wait!" Clint calls. Stiles turns himself around and sticks his head over the opening. "Coms. So we can find you once we're done."  
  
    Stiles takes the device from Clint's outstretched hand and puts it in his ear and is immediately assaulted by Tony's voice. Calling for Clint and Bucky.   
  
    "Clint, buddy, I could use you back down here."  
  
    "Roger, on our way." Bucky answers him.  
  
    Clint replaces the ventilation cover and Stiles watches them leave the room from his place in the ceiling. Stiles takes the map in one hand and unfolds it over the vent floor, lighting his way to see what he has to work with. It's a lot more complicated than he thought, but still manageable. The different floors are on different squares that the folds created, thankfully numbered and named in blocky scrawl.   
  
    He's crawling through the vents, mostly aimlessly, but staying in one place feels too much like being a sitting duck.  He's tucked the gun Bucky gave him into his belt near the knife to keep it out of the way as he moves, and it seems to be working out so far. He quickly find that going up a floor requires a ridiculous level of dexterity, and after trying to go up one floor, he decides to stick with descending floors instead. He could climb, but he'd rather not do that unless absolutely necessary. Dropping down a floor is as easy as it sounds, requiring just a little bit of maneuvering and managing his weight so he doesn't thump audibly as he descends.   
  
    He doesn't think he's ever done this much crawling in his life. His knees are protesting a little bit, but he tries to ignore it in favor of exploring. He also tries to ignore the voices coming over the coms. It's mostly Tony telling the others what to do, and ignoring the others when they tell him what to do. Lots of bickering. Lots of audible blasts and gunfire. He learns Steve in en route to return already. But it's all useless to him, crawling through the vents like a rat in a sewer, so he tries to ignore it. It only serves to send his heart beating faster and his breath coming in quicker.   
  
    On floor 14, R&D 4 according to the map, he sees a torrent of dead bodies and bloody walls. He can hear people screaming and fighting and begging.   
  
    "Where are you guys?" Stiles asks in a rushed whisper.   
  
    "26. Bottlenecked." Clint replies levelly. "You?"  
  
    "14." Stiles says. "It's just research. They're killing everybody."   
  
    "Stay where you are. Don't get involved." Bucky demands, somehow anticipating Stiles's own thoughts.   
  
    "They're killing everybody!" Stiles hisses. "They're-"  
  
    "Stay put, hot shot." Tony interrupts. "Killing everybody means killing you too, if they know you're there." Tony cuts off with a pained groan and Stiles tries not to imagine whatever is happening on the other end of the coms.   
  
    Stiles swears under his breath and moves away from the gore-covered room, making his way closer to the louder voices and gunfire on the other end of the floor. The few lab techs (he assumes) are in a stand off with the body-armored goons in black. The lab techs are shooting with the same semi-automatics the goons in black have, so he guesses they got lucky with something, somehow. There are only three R&D guys left, and only 2 body-armored guys shooting at them, so Stiles thinks they'll probably be fine. But the lab guys can't aim for shit, he can see that much, and the goons in black move with a military precision.   
  
    Stiles is hovering on the edge of a moment, fighting his instincts to help, and fighting the self-preservation to keep himself safe and listen to the people in his ear fighting above him. But then another few shots ring out, followed by one of the lab tech's screaming in agony. Stiles bites his tongue and retreats, tasting blood in the air more than in his mouth. If he stays, he's going to do something stupid. Behind him, as he crawls away, he hears another few gun shots and then a stilled silence, one that rings louder than any of the other noises he's heard so far.   
  
    The techs in the lab are no doubt dead and he couldn't have done anything to help. He hears the goons in black discussing clearing out the rest of the rooms and speeds his pace up as much as he can while remaining quiet in his hiding place. What is he doing? What was the point in leaving the space above Clint's room if he wasn't going to do anything but cower in fear?   
  
    He hears hurried whispering coming from somewhere, echoing into the vents.   
     
    "They're coming!"  
  
    "They won't find us."  
  
    "Of course they will, you imbecile! It's Hydra."  
  
    "They already walked by once."  
  
    "That just means there's a greater chance they won't walk by this time."  
  
    "We don't have any chance, jesus christ, jesus christ."  
  
    "Shut up!"  
  
    "We've got to get out of here."  
  
    "And go where exactly? Back into the hallway? The stairs? We're all fucked."  
  
    "I'm not going to die here."  
  
    "Really? Why don't you go open the door and let them know that."  
  
    "Fuck you."  
  
    "Fuck you! We're fucked. Well and truly fucked."  
  
    "We'll be fine. Shut up, all of you. We just have to find -"  
  
    "Shh! Sh! Shh!" Someone whispers urgently.   
  
    Stiles has crawled close enough, is looking out the vent in the top of the wall to a small storage room, at the four people huddled in mass behind an upturned table, when he hears the same thing that caused the person to hush the rest in the room. The door-knob rattling.   
  
    Muffled voices behind the door speak for a few quick moments, and then they start firing the hinges off the door. Stiles curses himself, pushing the vent cover off of the exit and clattering to the floor alongside it. He quickly levels himself up on a file cabinet to replace the vent cover, and takes out his gun, pressing against the wall next to the door.   
  
    The other residents in the room are gaping at him. He raises a finger to his lips and they all hunker down with hope sparkling in their eyes. He feels a thrum of guilt run up his throat, that they're putting their trust in him - really believing he's going to be their savior. He can't let them down. He just can't.   
  
    The door hits the ground with a solid kick from the other side, and the four people behind the table all duck their heads underneath. Stiles has seen the men already. He's close enough to do it.   
  
    When the first man steps through the door, Stiles shoots him straight through the neck. He drops like a sack of dirt, which, not really an inaccurate comparison. The second guy catches him by surprise. There's barely 5 seconds between Stiles's shot and his gun being wrenched from his hand. It hits the floor with a clatter and then the other guy is on him. He's surprised he's not shot, but the gun the guy's toting around is really too big for close-quarters anyway.   
  
    As his head connects painfully with the floor, he curses the four other people in the room who are still cowering instead of doing anything useful, like slamming this guy over the head with a chair, or a book, or fucking-something.   
  
    "Stiles!" Someone yells into his ear, painfully loud.   
  
    He groans in response, kicking out at the guy, who moves just far enough away the kick doesn't land.   
  
    "Knives." Someone in his ears reminds him.  
  
    "Yeah." Stiles answers, unsheathing the one strapped to his back while the guy comes in for another pummel.   
  
    It's over startlingly quick. One second, Stiles has the knife in his hand and the next, the knife is embedded in the guy's neck. Stiles yanks it free with a twist and the guy's blood soaks him as he drops.   
  
    "Gross. Ugh." Stiles wipes his face with a sleeve. He wipes the knife on his pants and puts it back in it's holster.   
  
    "Thanks for the help." He mutters to the four useless people in the room as he retrieves his gun from the floor. They all avoid his gaze studiously.  
  
    "I'm alright." Stiles says for his companions. "Got four people here that I don't know what to do with, though."  
  
    "Leave them." Tony says. "Get back up here."   
  
    "No actually," Tony corrects half a second after his previous sentence, "Meet us halfway. We're pretty much set up here, but JARVIS says there's still a few dozen of them running around the building."  
  
    Stiles nods to himself. "What do they want? Hydra?"   
  
    Stiles is met with a long silence that sets his nerves on fire.   
  
    "We can't be sure." Tony finally answers.   
  
    "Right." Stiles says. "Sure, okay."  
  
    "Just get up here or I'll send the geriatric assassin to get you." Tony threatens.    
  
    "Got it."  
  
    Stiles hauls himself back to the vent grate and removes it before turning back to the people in the room.  
  
    "You guys will be safe here. Just go pick another room. And this time, maybe move something in front of the door? Okay? I gotta go find Tony."   
  
    "We could just come -" One starts.  
  
    "And smash your way through the metal vents, and possibly cause one or all of us to die? Yeah, no thanks."  
  
    "Fuck you." One guy seethes.  
  
    "Fuck you!" Stiles grits his teeth. "You're all more useless than I am. Take the guns off old and ugly there and go find somewhere else to hide. I've got places to be."  
  
    He climbs up with the grate in one hand and fastens it shut behind him, purposefully ignoring the people complaining about being left behind him.   
  
    "I killed two people for them while they sat on their hands and chattered their teeth in fear and they're complaining about being left behind. Ungrateful assholes." He mumbles.  
  
    He hears Clint laugh in agreement.   
  
    "Shit, Stiles, Tony says -" Clint starts. The coms cut out mid-sentence.   
  
    "Damn it." Stiles mourns the loss of the technology, the loss of their voices. It's almost too quiet in his ear now. He follows the map in near silence up a couple of floors. He hits floor 20 before he starts sweating in exertion. He can do better than that. But, you know, not quietly enough. He can definitely hear at least some of those 'few dozen' bad guys Tony said were still in the tower.   
  
    "Is there another stairway?" One asks, too close for Stiles to feel comfortable. But it's a good question. Is there another set of stairs somewhere? If they haven't found it, then he can just use that to get to where he needs to go, instead of performing literal acrobatics up and down the vent shafts.   
  
    "Don't think so."  
  
    "Then one of them is in the vents."  
  
    Stiles freezes where he is automatically.   
  
    "Barton."   
  
    "Barton's stuck where he is."  
  
    "So who's the lucky flower crawling around in there?"   
  
    Stiles jolts into movement, moving away from the voices, going towards the next junction on the map. The last thing Clint said. Tony says. Tony says... they can track us. Tony says... they know you're in the vents. Tony says... the coms cut out. He takes the com out of his ear and abandons it behind him, continuing through the maze on his hands and knees.   
  
    He tumbles out of the vents when someone pulls a grate from underneath him, hitting the floor in a hard drop. He sees a gaggle of goons standing over him and launches to his feet in a painful move, only to feel a pinch on the back of his neck before watching the entire world fall away from him as he drops into unconsciousness.   
   


	5. Warning Sign

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgot to tell you guys i can't help myself but to make things dark

_I'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take._

  
It's almost comical how he was caught. It's not comical coming to consciousness in a pitch black room, with his hands cuffed in front of him to some kind of table and his ankles securely fastened around the chair he's sitting on. It's actually kind of terrifying, not that he'll ever admit that to anyone later. If there is a later, his traitorous mind supplies. He counters his own thoughts. There's always a later. He's not going to break that streak now. Everything will be fine.

The lights turn on right after he's gotten accustomed to being in the dark. They flash, too bright, catching him by surprise. He tries to bring his hands up to shield his eyes, but they catch a few inches into their rising by the cuffs. He scrunches his eyes shut and huddles down on the table to ease the assault to his vision. A door opens and shuts behind him.

"What is your name?"

Stiles squints his eyes to see past the brightness of the room.  
  
"How did you get here?"

"How did I get here?" Stiles questions, not catching his mind before the words escape.

He's answered with a slap that sends his entire body reeling to the side.

"Your name!" The guy demands. From Stiles's place, draped halfway over the side of the chair, hands still secured uncomfortably close to the table, he grunts.

"Esteban." Stiles says. "Esteban Julio Ricardo Montoya De la -"

His smirk is cut off with a second backhand that reels him right over the side of the chair again, leaning painfully, all of his weight on his wrists. He can tell the restraints are going to rub him raw eventually if he keeps getting slapped around.

The guy sits across from him, just on the other side of the metal table. The room is bare, from what Stiles has seen. And, of course, there's an observation window directly across from him. One-way glass, with god knows who on the other side. Well, actually, Stiles does know who: Hydra. He just doesn't know who.

He takes a minute righting himself back in his chair to look at the guy. He's armed, wearing a tactical vest, like the one Bucky put on just before they left their floor. He's in all black, which Stiles has to admit cuts a pretty impressive figure. It's all foreboding and frightening, and oh, yeah, he's stuck right where he is with tall, dark, and foreboding, unless somebody decides to barrel in and get him out. Brilliant.

The guy's gaze is piercing and Stiles summons the nerve to sit still and not fidget under the scrutiny, meeting the pair of eyes across from him and not faltering for a second. Whatever the guy sees causes him to reach a decision.

"I'll level with you. Tit-for-tat." He says, folding his hands in front of him on the shining steel table. "You can call me Hank."

Stiles quickly weighs the pros and cons of giving Hank, or Hydra, his name, but doesn't see any consequence too terrible that would result from it. It's just a name. It's not even his real name. And he doesn't exist here, anyway.

"Stiles." Stiles introduces with a small nod of acquiescence.

Hank nods back and gives a friendly smile.

"Alright, Stiles." Hank talks at a sedate pace, calm in his movements. Stiles makes a note in his head to do the same. "Two days ago, you arrived here, is that right?"

"Have I really been passed out that long?" Stiles fumbles. Hank doesn't rise to the bait.

"Two days ago." Hank reiterates. "And you've been with the Avengers since then. They picked you up, brought you home, and now you're here."

Stiles seals his mouth shut and just stares at Hank.

"But what do you really know about them, Stiles? What do you know about us?" Hank leads. "The Avengers, they're not the heroes they claim to be."

Stiles doesn't want to play mind games, but Hank keeps pushing.

"So you what? Fall through a portal? Create a link between here and somewhere else, drop through, and land across the country from them. They find you and imprison you without wasting any time at all."

Stiles looks dubiously between Hank and the shackles around his wrists.

"Precautions." Hank explains away with a wave of his hand. "You understand. We don't intend to keep you in this room for the rest of your life."

"You've heard of Hydra?" Hank hedges, leaning back into his chair.

"Yeah." Stiles says. "I have."

"And what do you know of us?" Hank inquires.

"The Winter Soldier. What happened at the Tower." Stiles lists.

"And what of the Avengers?"

"I've read their Wiki pages. Most of them."

"That's it?" Hank tsks.

"Give me a break!" Stiles says. "I don't know anything else! I just met the guys. It's not like we're best friends."

"Yes. We are aware of that." Hank gives. "So how did you get here?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" Stiles seethes. "I'm not an expert in this kind of thing! I have no idea what the hell happened. I have no idea what is going on between you guys and The Avengers. And I don't care. I just want to get back."

"We can help you, Stiles. Despite what you may have come across, Hydra is not what it's portrayed to be. We've been given a massive disservice by those who write the history books." Hank leans in as he talks, looking every bit a man possessed by his words, hypnotic in his determination to impart his truths.

Stiles's mind flashes back to the men killing indeterminately in the tower, while he watched in abject horror through the vents. His mind reels. Does Hank really believe this? Or is it just to get Stiles in a pliable state of mind?

"You came for me." Stiles supposes. "That's why you stormed the Tower. For me."

"In part." Hank says. Stiles waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn't continue.

"Okay then." Stiles says, leaning away from Hank in his bonds, resting his back against the chair.  
  
"Tell me about your world." Hank presses, looking every bit interested and contemplative. "What's different?"

"There are no Avengers. No Hydra. No aliens. No SHIELD."

"Are you sure of that?" Hank asks.

Stiles hums. "Well, secret government agencies don't exactly announce themselves. But yeah, pretty sure SHIELD and Hydra aren't a thing there."

"We did have 2 World Wars, and the Cold War, and Vietnam, and 9/11 was a thing there, too." Stiles thinks back to his conversation with Bruce and Tony for ideas. "Snowden, Assange, Manning. They all happened, too. Not sure about anything else."

"No, that's quite alright." Hank smiles at Stiles again, sending a bolt of nervousness running down his spine. His leg starts tapping of it's own accord to dispel some of the tension in his body.

"You've been very forthcoming." Hank praises. "Thank you. I believe it's my turn now, right? Tit for tat."

Stiles doesn't know what to expect from him, but sits back and lets Hank gather his thoughts together for whatever he's going to say next.

"Hydra's origins are thousands of years past." Hank monologues. "Thousands of years, maintaining secrecy, keeping the balance, shaping the centuries for the betterment of mankind. Avoiding wars, toppling oppressive regimes, delivering power back into the hands of the people whom it was stolen from.

"All noble causes, a legacy to be proud of, even if the methods can be a bit crude and bloody, you understand?" Hank continues. "The Winter Soldier, you no doubt know, was one of these methods. A particularly talented American soldier who cut down hundreds of our great men in the name of an empire controlled by motives they did not understand. A man left for dead by that same empire. A man dying, alone in the cold, until we took him in and made him a true example of the fight for good in the world."

Stiles's mind is repeating the word brainwashing like a police siren, as Hank continues talking - continues trying to illustrate Hydra's merit to Stiles.

"There are real people in the world, pulling the strings behind curtains, playing with the lives of the innocent through propaganda and social engineering, through wars and through silencing and manipulating those who that believe, so strongly, in what they are told is 'good' and 'valuable', all protecting the institutions they think are 'worth protection'. Like the Avengers, Stiles. Captain America. Tony Stark. Barnes. The Widow. The Archer. The alien God. They're the puppets of the hidden hands, hands hidden so deeply, so embedded, they don't even realize they're merely acting out the parts they've been designated.

"They're as capable as you or I, of fighting the right battles, if they ever opened their eyes. They just don't yet see they've been deceived on such a visceral, basic level. It's the greatest tragedy of our time, to have so many good people so firmly entrenched in their delusions. Hydra is dedicated, and has always been, to maintaining the order - defeating the liars, opening up the truth for the good of humanity."

"If that's all true..." Stiles begins, trying to balance between disbelief and understanding. "If what you're saying is true, then that explains Hydra's reputation."

It's a silent game. Either Stiles plays convincingly and walks out of here alive, or Stiles fails and possibly never sees his pack again. He feels a little nauseous with the knowledge of how much it would make sense, if Hank was telling the truth. He's no stranger to a conspiracy theory, anyway. He's no stranger to certain truths being obscured, no stranger to the manipulation of the American public.

"But who are the 'hidden hands' though? Who is behind it? Is it more than one group? Like multiple secret societies all trying to come out on top?" Stiles asks, stressing his confusion about the motives.

"You'll have plenty of time to think on it." Hank says, leveling his gaze. "For now, I'd say it's time you rest."

The guards haul him to standing after unfastening his legs from the chair and his hands from the table. Stiles shuffles alongside Hank and the two guards, making his way sedately through a mass of halls without seeing anything noteworthy. They pass lots of people. Some stare, but Stiles keeps his gaze firmly ahead and passes over all of them. He just - he doesn't really know. It's been a long day.

He'd like to say he was thrown into a bunk and got a solid 6 hours of sleep. He'd like to say they sat him down in a communal cafeteria and let him meander through the line. That the food wasn't great, per se, but it filled him up enough to make him drowsy. That the shower was a little uncomfortable, what with the guards stationed outside the room. That the water's temperature was tepid, but bearable. That they didn't have him take a shower in freezing cold water. That he wasn't thrown into a cell with just a hole in a floor, a single cot, and a threadbare sheet. That they didn't pass a tray through the bars with just a protein bar and a bottle of water. That he wasn't lying alone, cold, and prostrate in the dark and the silence of an otherwise unoccupied wing of the building.  
  
But this is what it is. The thought sends a shiver down his body, reminding him of the temperature in the cell. He burrows deeper into the sheet and tries to measure the negatives against the positives. At least they gave him clean clothes to wear. At least he isn't dead yet

They wake him sometime later by turning on bright florescent lights. He sits up on the cot and leans his back against the wall, not daring to take off the meager sheet and the bare amount of warmth it provides. It's a solid hour, at least, before anyone shows up with breakfast. He's given another protein bar and bottle of water, this time without a tray. When he's finished, too quickly, they take back the bar's wrapper and the emptied water bottle and leave him alone.

"Hey!" Stiles yells out of the cell at their retreating figures. "What's on the schedule for today?"

It's not his best line and he grimaces after their footsteps are long gone. He'll have to make a list of things to say next time, if only for posterity's sake.

He doesn't see anyone for a long time. They don't turn off the lights. They don't turn off the lights, and the bright fluorescents are starting to give him a headache. He thinks, there's no possible way he's going to be able to fall asleep, but he manages after awhile. Maybe it's only been 5 hours, maybe it's been 30. He can't tell.

When he wakes he doesn't feel rested. Which, he thinks wryly, is the point, huh? Nobody comes back. He's stuck in his thoughts. But, it's not just that. He's stuck in these walls. He has nothing to read and nothing to look at to keep his mind busy. The walls are all a dirty white. The floor is hard concrete. The ceiling is one solid white mass, much the same as the walls. He sleeps at least three times, trying to ignore his growing hunger and his desperate thirst.

When someone finally comes with another protein bar and bottle of water he takes both greedily and stops just short of thanking them. That's what they want him to do, he thinks. Which is why he definitely should have done so. But it's also why he's sticking by his silence. He's proven right when they don't come back again. He lasts for some time, surrounded entirely by the cold and the lights and the restless sleep and the deprivation, before he breaks down in tears. He's grateful he hasn't seen a camera anywhere, because he'd hate for anyone he knows to watch him when he's in the middle of emotional wreck.

Hands fisted into his hair, face bracketed by his knees, wrenching sobs out of his tired body, he thinks, this isn't it. There will be more after this. It's relieving, because it means he's eventually going to get out of the cell. But it's also terrifying because he's still here right now. He still has to deal with this.

He doesn't know how long he's been in the cell. It can't be longer than a week, but it's probably not shorter than 3 days. Either way, that's when they come to get him. Mid-sob, he looks up at the footsteps he can hear echoing down the corridor. Two guards come into the cell and lift him firmly by each arm and usher him through the opened gate.

As soon as he's righted his vision fades from him, black spots dancing until he can't see anything else. His feet keep propelling him past this sightlessness. The guards stop him from slumping over or falling in his dizzy state but he's not going to offer praises for that unintentional kindness. They throw him on the floor in a new room and he watches them from his knees as they make their way a few steps back to stand by the door.

Stiles takes some time to examine his surroundings, the first things he's seen since leaving his cell. He expected to feel relieved but he only feels anxious, almost like he wants nothing more than to escape back to it. Which, all in all, might be the most fucked up thing about this situation so far.

The floor is covered in pristine white tiles, the room empty save for one long table where Hank sits. There are multiple cameras on the ceiling, covering the whole room, he'd guess.

Hank's sitting on the far side of the table, alternating taking bites from a full plate and sipping languidly from a tall glass of water. He's got a glass of milk off to his left side he's not touching. He's also not touching the plate directly across from him, equally filled with food. He can see toast, eggs, and sausage from where he's kneeling. He feels his hands start shaking and clenches them into fists at his sides. Hank doesn't even acknowledge him.

He knows, he just knows, this is another test. He doesn't know what's riding on it. Will they feed him if he messes up? Will they turn off the lights at night if he manages to play his cards right? He feels more tears of frustration threatening to spill over and blinks them all back. He wants to fold over, to get his weight off his knees, but he's too afraid of what might happen if he does. More specifically, he's afraid of what will happen if he doesn't stay exactly where he was put.

The food on the table is assaulting his senses. He can smell the grease in the sausage. He can smell the toast. When he takes a breath in through his mouth he can pretend he's tasting it. He lets his head fall down, closing his eyes, imagining what it might feel like the bite into the meal. It shouldn't be as hard as it is, since he's eaten the same breakfast before, but his mind's imaginings are nowhere close to what he wants to taste. His stomach gurgles in agitation, sending a painful pang through his body.

"Stiles."

Stiles raises his head and looks at Hank.

"Yeah?" Stiles croaks back, throat rough from disuse.

Hank turns his head away and goes back to his meal. Stiles has a fond image of strangling Hank flash before his mind. The man continues to eat at a sedate pace, not at all concerned with Stiles or his growing desperation for food. Stiles swallows a dry mouthful of spit and lets his body drop it's tension.

Think, Stiles. A voice like Lydia's moves through his head. It's not a bad suggestion. A long few minutes pass, which Stiles counts out in his head by the seconds.

"Stiles." Hank says again. Stiles feels his heartbeat pick up.

"Yes, sir?" He hedges.

Hank gives him a big grin and gestures to the table opposite him. "Come join me."

Stiles stands gingerly, legs half-numbed from reduced blood flow, vision starting to dance behind his eyes again, and sits across from Hank. From the table, he can see his plate is filled with not just toast, sausage, and eggs, but a generous portion of sauteed mushrooms as well. He can actually feel himself salivating, unable to take his eyes off the plate.

He has to force his gaze away, and looks instead to Hank, who's just watching him with an unreadable expression.

"You look hungry." Hank says.

He wants to say, 'What was your first clue, asshole?' And follow it up with a treatise on how he knows exactly what Hank's doing. Instead, he grits his teeth.

"I am, sir."

"Hm." Hank tuts, taking another drink from his glass of water.

He sets the cup down and then slides it over to Stiles's side of the table.

"You have my permission to eat and drink." He says, folding his hands into his lap. "Go ahead."

It takes Stiles about 10 seconds to process that before his brain comes back online and he grabs the glass of water with both of his unsteady hands. It's almost at his lips before he realizes he might have made a mistake, images flashing to the guards who brought him food earlier in the week.

"Thank you, sir." The words feel foreign coming out of his mouth and he knows they're probably coming across just as stilted, but somehow it's enough for Hank to present him with a smile and a friendly urge to continue.

He downs the water in one long gulp, and starts into the food just as quickly. He's warring with himself. One half says savor it, and the other says get it inside of him as fast as possible. The sweetness of the sausage makes him a little nauseous, but he fights the feeling to get it all inside of him. He's probably lost enough calories that he'll take all he can get.

With his belly full, but his mind still screaming 'not enough', he pushes the plate back from himself and thanks Hank again, just as formally as the previous time.

It goes like that, for awhile. They starve him under the unending light, and sometime long after he's given up hope, they retrieve him, carry him back to that room, and he and Hank play the same game. The only thing that's different is the semi-regular bottles of water he's given in his cell. Or, you know, it could be a regular thing. He just has no reference from which to guess.

He comes to the conclusion that the constant simulated daylight is wreaking havoc on his mental faculties, judging by the frequency with which he breaks down, crying or screaming into the empty unit, like some sort of madman. Whenever he comes out of an episode, he can logically judge how little sense he was using at the time. So he vows to not fall prey to his swirling emotions again, only to find he loses all of his sense eventually, and the cycle repeats.

Stiles almost wishes they were beating him, that he had fists and feet pounding at his body. He could deal with that. He has dealt with that. It would make everything easier, even if the pain would be tremendous. He'd at least have an excuse for his tumultuous thoughts, for his erratic actions.

The next time he's brought to Hank's feet, he isn't fed, instead Hank stands and tells Stiles to follow him out the door. Stiles doesn't look mournfully towards the plate that should be his, he really doesn't. He just has to be confident that they will eventually feed him. And they will, or else all of this has been for nothing. He refuses to think that. Everything so far has been checks and balances. He behaves, they feed him. He does what they expect him to do, they give him water.

The room they end up in is dimly lit. There is a single table, decked out in straps, and a variety of machinery around at various placements. He tenses mid-step.

"Get on the table." Hank commands.

"Yes, sir." Stiles makes his way forward through halting steps, each foot forward feeling like a step he'll never be able to take back. He eyes the men with guns stationed at intervals throughout the room. There, again, is really no choice here. He shakes as they fasten the straps over him.

He's been pretending it's moves and counter-moves, but he doesn't have any counter-moves. He's a pawn on Hydra's side of the board. He goes where he's told, and that's it. That's everything. That's all there is to this.

Breathe, Stiles, you have to breathe. Lydia's voice breaks through his mounting panic. He takes a deep breath in and tries to hold it, only to lose it with the awareness of a heavy buzzing sound, pulsing intermittently.

"Your name is Stiles." Hank says, eyes glinting in the light from the pulsing stick he's holding. "What is your name?"

"Stiles?" Stiles questions, eyebrows scrunched up in confusion.

Hank brings the baton down and touches Stiles's thigh with it. Stiles screams out, painful spasms echoing through his entire body. Hank keeps the taser, because it's a fucking taser, in place through Stiles's bound thrashing. When he finally removes it, Stiles pants painfully, feeling his muscles twitching in response to the onslaught.

"What is your name?" Hank asks again, taunting Stiles with the taser.

"Stiles! Stiles. Stiles." Stiles yells back at him, fear coursing through his body.

Hank electrocutes him again and another pained howl makes it way out of Stiles's mouth, one that quickly turns to heaving sobs as he tries to maneuver away from the baton.

"Please, please, stop. Stop." Stiles begs. Hank doesn't relent. Stiles thinks he might break his teeth with how hard he's clenching them.

When the electricity finally shuts off, he breathes in a huge sigh of relief but can't stop his tears from falling or the slight hitches in his breath.

"What is your name?" Hank asks again, still as calm as he was the first time.

"Stiles, sir." Stiles whines. It's terribly undignified, and feels much like handing over his entire self to the man. It leaves him feeling emptied.

Hank moves the wand down, presses it to the bottom of his foot. Stiles flinches, only to find Hank hasn't turned it on yet.

"What is your name?" He flips the taser on.

Stiles reacts with a louder scream, the tender underside of his bare foot more sensitive than his thigh. He tries to pull the foot away automatically, only to find it's as stuck as the rest of his body.

"Stiles, sir!"

Hank turns the taser off and moves it to the other foot. Stiles can't suppress this flinch, either.

"Your name." Hank turns the taser on again. Stiles can't speak at all through the white hot, blinding pain.

When Hanks removes the wand, Stiles repeats through gasping breaths. "Stiles, sir."

Hank puts the wand back to Stiles's left foot and turns it on. Stiles begins to sob uncontrollably. Everything narrows down to the focal point between the electrocution and his body. No matter how much he moves to get away from the wand, it's never far enough to ease the prolonged sizzling cut of it.

When Hank removes the wand again, Stiles begs through his sobbing and twitching state. "Please, sir. Please, stop, sir. No more, sir. No more, please, sir, please."

Hank cuts through Stiles's t-shirt and bares his stomach, pressing the instrument into the flesh he finds. Stiles shakes his head silently, mouthing no's, and please's. Hank turns it on again.

Stiles can't make the muscles in his mouth work so he ends up wrenching a whine all the way from his throat, past his clenched jaw. It's beyond anything he's ever felt before. Hank removes the wand for long enough that Stiles can take gasping breaths in through his nose, before putting it in the same place and continuing the assault.

It's never-ending. Hank moves around his body, always asking him the same question. Stiles answers it the same way each time. At some point, his tears dry up. Sometime after that, his body gives up. His mind gives up. The only reaction he has to the electrocution are his pained cries and what seems to be near-permanent shaking.

"What is your name?" Hank asks him. The prompt comes to him through a thick fog, one that's penetrated everything that he is.

"Stiles, sir." Stiles says with a flattened voice and dead eyes.

When Hank presses the baton into Stiles's side, he doesn't flinch. He just waits for what's inevitable, now. And sure enough, it comes, leaving Stiles wasted and lost once the steady, painful buzz of the taser is removed.

Hank wastes no time reveling in the surrender, instead pressing the taser to other parts of Stiles's flesh and sending electricity coursing through his body.

Sometime later, he feels the straps over his body come off. He doesn't move from his position, stiff and still as a board. He feels a small pinch in his left arm, where they hook up an IV to his body. He wonders what they're giving him. Even though the IV bags are out of his line of sight, he doubts it really matters he check to see what they are. He lays there, moving in and out of himself as the time passes.

"You've performed functionally today." Hank complements, jotting down something onto a clipboard.

"Thank you, sir." Stiles intones.

When they take the needle out of his arm, he doesn't see or feel it. He's dragged from the room by the same guards who took him from his cell. Dragged, because he can't walk on his ruined feet. He's halfway to his cell before he becomes aware of his still-shaking muscles, of the pain that's still radiating throughout his body. He hates this. He hates Hydra. He hates everything. He wants to die.


	6. Approximate Sunlight

_Now you are how you were when you were real._

They turn the lights off after he's dropped back into his cell and he's so relieved he thinks he might cry out of sheer joy. It's been too long. It's been far too long, and he can hear himself laughing and crying but it doesn't really feel like it's coming from his own body. He crawls over to the cot and bunches the sheet up to a makeshift pillow. He's gonna get a fever soon if they don't treat the electroshock wounds. Either way, now they are no doubt inflamed and he's as painfully warm as he is uncomfortably cold. He lays on his back and sleep takes him under soon after.

When the lights turn on he's given no time to adjust to being awake, just dragged from the room and to another. This one has the same set up as the electroshock room, but the table is replaced by a red chair, still with straps. One of the guards drags him over and makes him sit into the chair, which isn't an easy feat with his injured feet.

He lets them secure the straps in place and he's given another intravenous solution. This time, he feels the needle pierce his skin and grimaces, but does nothing to stop them. It becomes routine.

The guards don't talk much, or at all to him, at least. Sometimes he'll hear them as they walk down the hallway to get him from his cell. Sometimes, they'll make quiet chatter from the corner of the room when he's getting IV'd up full of something. Whatever it is, he heard them call it milk before, it's replacing his food. It's not replacing the gnawing hunger, but it's keeping him alert and alive. Functional, he hears Hank say.

They've probably given him antibiotics, too, since his feet are slowly becoming easier to use, and Malia's scratches are also healing up pretty nicely. And now, each time he steps, he's not whimpering, or screaming inside of his head. So he's healing, which is good. They gave him a cold shower with a hose just the other day, and gave him new clothes to go with it. They've kept the lights on/lights off schedule going, too. So all in all, things are improving. That's not to say they're great, because Stiles isn't an idiot who's forgotten there is a world outside of his prison, but they're not as bad as they were. And they're not as bad as they could be. Which is why, when the tables turn again, he's not at all surprised by it.

When the guards drop him into the room, the first room, where Hank lets him eat, he's almost excited. He's on his knees by the door, like he always is. There's a plate filled with eggs and toast across from Hank.

"Bring him in." Hank tells the guards.

The door behind Stiles opens at the same time Hank stands. The two guards in black are dragging a new man into the room. He looks out of it, probably drugged. His gaze isn't focused anywhere. His clothes are torn and singed black in some places and when the guards move away so he can stand, the guy's not very steady on his feet.

Hank unholsters a gun and points it at Stiles from where he stands, a good six or seven feet away. Stiles doesn't move from his place. He doesn't say anything.  
  
The man they brought into the room is swaying on his feet still, both arms fastened behind him with cuffs. He doesn't look older than 40, a thick beard growing in dark color over his face. It couldn't have been more than a week since he shaved last, which means either they let some prisoners shave, or he's a recent addition to Hydra's captives.

When he tears his eyes away from the man to look back at Hank, he finally addresses him.

"Stiles." Hank's voice is startlingly clear. He chambers a bullet as he continues talking. "Kill him."

"What, Sir?" Stiles voice gets strangled on it's way out of his throat.

"Do as you're told." Hank growls and glances to his gun. "Kill him or I kill you. Now!"

"Yes, sir." Stiles says. He doesn't know if he's agreeing yet. He stands, strange energy enveloping his limbs. His bare feet slap against the cold tile as he steps forward to the bound man. He hesitates visibly and Hank shoots the tile by his feet.

"It's your life or his." Hank muses with startling clarity. "Think of it as a welcome party to Hydra. A test to see what you're made of."

Everything is moving too fast.

"This is serious." Stiles mumbles under his breath. "This is real. This is happening. This is happening."

"Stiles." Hank growls a warning.

"Yes, sir." Stiles says louder. "Yes, sir. Okay. I understand, sir. I just gotta..." He trails off.

Stiles has been here before. Kill or be killed. He's still freaking out a little bit. A lot a bit, if he's honest. If he does this, there won't be any going back. He won't be able to look anybody in the eye for the rest of his life. It'll be like the Nogitsune all over again, and he doesn't want to kill this guy. He wants to kill Hank, for putting him in this position. He wants to kill the white haired guy who put him here in the first place. He doesn't want to kill some no-name dude just because it's either his life or theirs. But it is. This is where he is right now. There's nothing else for him to do if he ever wants to see the sky again. He just has to bide his time, just has to wait for help to come, if it's coming. And if not, he just has to do what he's told until Hank trusts him.

He steps forward in a dulled march. He has no weapons. He doesn't need any, but it would be so much nicer for the guy he has to -don't even think about it. When he's in front of the guy, the guards also level their guns at him. The man slumps into the wall directly on to his bound hands behind him. He's barely standing straight but somehow manages to stare Stiles dead in the eyes as he approaches. Stiles almost says something to him, but stops after opening his mouth, snapping it shut with an audible clack.

Stiles squares his jaw, brings his fist back, and punches directly into the man's temple. The man hits the ground on his side and doesn't move again. But punches to the temple either cause unconsciousness or death, and he doesn't know which. Stiles is already committed. He's already made his peace with his actions.

He hits the ground hard on his knees, straddling the man's body, and grabs his skull in both of his hands. He smashes it into the hard floor until the skull is cracked - until he's sure, beyond a doubt, this man will never stand or walk or breathe ever again. He wipes his bloodied hands on the mans shirt to clean them off. He stands quickly after, moving away from the body. His chest is heaving with it's own heavy breaths. His pulse is accelerated, his mind foggy with a flood of endorphins. Nothing here makes any sense.

What was the point of any of it? Why try to convince him of Hydra's causes, why go to all this trouble only to give him an ultimatum like - don't think about it. Don't look at him. Don't look at the body. That definitely didn't just happen. I didn't just -

Hank puts an arm around Stiles's shoulders and leads him back to the the table with the food on it. His stomach twists and turns under his ribs, sending a roll of unease floating through him. He doesn't sit. Hank's saying something, but it slips away from Stiles as soon as it reaches his ears. He looks down at his messy hands and counts his fingers. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. Ten fingers. This happened. He just - fuck. He just - But it wasn't really a choice, not really. He didn't really have a choice.

"That wasn't your first kill, was it, Stiles?" Hank's mocking voice pierces through the fog.

"No, sir, I shot one of your buddies back in the tower straight through his fucking neck." Stiles snarls back, caution left the same place he left his mind.

Hank swings his gun directly into Stiles's face, forcing him down to his knees.

"Murderers always have the same fire in their eyes. I saw it in yours." Hank growls at Stiles. "You're no different from the rest of us. You do what you have to do."

Stiles hangs his head, all fight leaving him.

"That man was no innocent, if that's what's got your panties in such a tight bunch." Hank says. Stiles watches Hank's feet from his position on the floor.

"He spearheaded the campaign to kill Hydra on sight, following what happened at the Triskelion two years ago. He's got what was coming to him. You delivered justice. You did good, even if you're an insolent wreck, Boy."

"Yes, sir." Stiles nods numbly along with Hank's words.

"Come on now, up you get." Hank extends a hand. Stiles grips it without thought and is hauled to his feet. "You're going to be punished for your mouth, but then we'll see what else you can do."

"Yes, sir." Stiles agrees, thinking after killing some man, some innocent man, he deserves all the punishment he's going to get. And it's not like he can just say 'no', anyway.

If he thought constant light was torture before, it was nothing compared to constant darkness. Hank walked him directly to a literal hole in the floor and told him to get in. He did, without thought, and Hank levered a lid on top of him and that was that.

He's cramped in the small space, no bigger than a literal dog's cage. He can't lay down and extend his legs. He can't sit up straight. He can barely curl up on his side, and he's growing more scared with each passing second. There's nothing but unending darkness. He can't hear anything. He can't see anything. What if they leave him in here forever? Nobody will find him. Nobody will know he's even here. He doesn't even know where the air flow is coming from. He tries examining the whole area, but can't maneuver his body to reach every corner in the box.

It triggers a panic attack, and he's pounding at the ceiling, clawing, trying to find a release mechanism or crack to breathe through. He feels startlingly pathetic, wrapping his arms around himself in an approximation of self-soothing in wake of his wretched defeat, like he hasn't stopped feeling pathetic from the moment he woke up in Hydra's grasp. It still feels as fresh as it does every time he's put into a situation like this.

He sleeps a lot less than he thought he would in the dark. Every minute he's awake feels like an hour. It's an even worse solitary confinement than the cell, in any state of light, constant or otherwise. He pretends his friends are all here to talk to him, making up conversations in his head to keep himself occupied.

We're coming for you, Stiles, just hold on. Scott tells him, righteous anger burning through his entire body.

He imagines his friends all teaming up to make a plan together, stealing the blueprints of Hydra's prison from the city commissioner. No, Scott brings in his dad to help. The FBI get the blueprints, but Rafe brings them to the pack and begs them not to get hurt saving Stiles.

I'll get hurt as long as I get to hurt the people who took Stiles. Malia smiles, fangs protruding in defiance. I don't care.

We'll make them pay. Lydia promises Rafe. And we'll get Stiles out safely.

He imagines them storming Hydra's base, taking out guards left and right. Malia, blood shining on her teeth and claws, tearing through the building until they find Hank. Making Hank tell them where Stiles is, and then ripping out his throat. The hatch opening above his head, Lydia, with tears in her eyes, coaxing him from the prison and walking him out of the building to safety.  
  
But it's bittersweet, because there never seems to be an end. He can imagine being rescued a hundred more times and nothing will change. He even gets so far down his personal rabbit hole that the Avengers sometimes take the place of his friends in his rescue. Sometimes, they work together. Everyone works together. He knows Lydia will like Natasha. He knows Malia will like Bucky and Steve. He knows Scott will like everybody.

But there's nothing solid to his fantasies, and they fade away every time he remembers he's never going to get help. It's already been weeks. It's had to have been. His feet are healed, and that must have taken at least two weeks. He misses search engines. 'How long do electrocution burns take to heal?' Two weeks sounds right. So, two weeks plus all of the unending lights. That was probably only two weeks, too, at max. So he's only been here a month? It doesn't feel like it, but there's no other guess he has. There's no other guess he wants to have, if he's being honest with himself. A month is still too long to have been here.

When they finally let him out, he's covered in his own waste. His shaky steps falter and he face plants on the floor, arms not working quickly enough to catch himself. The guards laugh at him as he pushes himself to his feet and waits for direction.

"Put your hands behind your head, Boy." A guard directs.

Stiles complies, bringing his hands up and clasping them together behind his head and waiting.

"Kneel!" The other one says.

Stiles drops down to his knees immediately, wincing when the exposed bones press against the hard concrete.

The two guards start chatting amicably, interspersing insults about Stiles into their easy conversation. Stiles can't bring himself to care. He's disgusting and sullied, he knows it. He can feel it.

"Back to your feet, hands behind your back. Now!"

Stiles does so, hearing his knees crack upon standing. He's taken to the showers, told to strip, and then sprayed with a power hose. It's as thorough as it is extremely painful. The stream bites at his skin like a vice. But again, he counters, it's better than being covered in his own filth. It's better than being in the box.

Then the sprayer's being turned off and he's given the same instructions: place your hands behind your head and kneel. He's naked, shivering and dripping water, completely exposed and anxious. It's like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And drop it does, as Hank steps into the shower room. He surveys Stiles like he might be a threat, which is the most ludicrous thing Stiles can imagine.

"Stand." Hank commands.

Stiles does so, keeping his hands fastened tightly together behind his head.

"Follow me."

"Yes, sir." Stiles concedes, walking after the man, the two guards following behind him closely.

He feels naked, which is a stupid thing to feel like when he is naked. It's humiliating and vile, but nobody's touching him, so again, small allowances of relief and reluctant gratefulness bleed through the worst feelings.

He's lead to an examination room that looks over another room with a chair. Bucky walks in.

Bucky walks in and his heart stops because finally, fucking finally. After all this time, finally, he has a way out.

But Bucky walks straight to the chair and sits, crushing every newfound hope that Stiles managed to wrangle. Bucky lets the men around him fasten him into the chair. He takes a mouth guard and bites into it. And then the electricity starts, searing directly into Bucky's head. The closed throat holding back his cries - Stiles can hear it, faint and echoing, from where he stands bare and vulnerable. Bucky's entire body tenses and spasms. A man starts speaking in a heavy language. And then the electricity stops. Bucky spits out the mouth guard.

"Soldier?" The man asks.

"Ready to comply." Bucky responds.

Stiles's whole world drops out from under him.

He watches numbly as Bucky walks out of the room without hesitance, following orders perfectly. The last thing he sees before he's gone is the back of his head, and even still, Stiles can't get his mind around what he watched happen. He can't fathom why they feel justified. He can't.

"That's what will happen to you if you don't comply of your own free will." Hank laughs at him, or laughs at Bucky. Stiles can't tell. "We'll take you to the chair, scramble everything you have. Even if you survive it, you'll have nothing left in that pretty little head of yours."

Stiles imagines it now, forces the bile back down his throat.

"So can you be good Stiles?" Hank asks, leering.

"Yes, I will, sir." Stiles says, meeting Hank's eyes for the first time since the shower.

"That's good. I think you deserve a reward, don't you?" He asks.

"I -" Stiles starts, confused, frightened of overstepping. "I don't know, sir."

"That's exactly it." Hank beams at him. "I decide when you're rewarded or punished, isn't that right?"

"Yes, it is, sir." Stiles says.

"And you get a reward." Hank smiles.  
  
"Thank you, sir." Stiles says.

Hank continues smiling. "Come along, now."

Stiles follows dutifully behind him as they leave the viewing room and travel a path to a wing of the building he's never seen. His arms are already starting to shake with the effort of holding them up.

They stop in front of a new cell, a different one than the previous in almost every way. The entire wing of the building is empty, like the last, but this one has a pillow and a real bed, one raised off the floor. It has a toilet and a sink. Stiles thinks, if this is where Hank's putting him, he owes him so much. It looks like heaven on earth, like everything he's wanted since he got here. Hank confirms his suspicions with that same smile.

"Welcome to your new home, Stiles!" Hank grins.

Stiles follows suit, unable to stop an ecstatic smile crossing his features.

"Thank you, sir, thank you so much. Thank you."

"There are clothes on the bed. Get dressed and wait for someone to take you to feeding." Hank tells him.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Stiles sighs, pleased, and is let into his new cell.

When the cage door clangs shut behind him he doesn't even care. A bed! He has a real bed! And a fucking toilet! He finds a roll of toilet paper on the ground beside it! He checks the tap on the sink and finds it actually gives him water. He eagerly cups his hands and drinks his fill, finding it doesn't even taste badly.

He gets dressed quickly and sits on the bed, mind eagerly turning with all the possibilities he now has. And it hits him then, this isn't a gift. This isn't a reward - except it is - except it's not. This is less than he deserves. This is less than he's ever had. This is less than he's ever had. It sobers him like getting hit by a freight train. Hank's messing with his head. Alternating horrible torture with less horrible torture. And it's working, he thinks, fear shooting down his spine.

Even though he knows this means nothing, he can't stop the feeling in him that says it means everything. He can't stop feeling grateful, even when he knows he should only feel ire. And the anger is there, but it's far outweighed by the complacent thankfulness he feels. He grasps his head in both hands and pulls at his own hair, trying to center himself and really feel what he should be feeling, but he can't. That's almost as monumental a loss as losing himself had been when he was the Nogitsune. Almost.


End file.
